


Yesterdays

by panda_shi



Series: Rebirth [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Communication Failure, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt, Emotionally Repressed, Extremis, Extremis Tony Stark, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Kid Tony Stark, Lack of Communication, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 67,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8671087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panda_shi/pseuds/panda_shi
Summary: Sequel to Rebirth
Warning Note: Hints of WinterIron -- may/may not progress; possibly one-sided. StOny remains primary pairing. “And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.” ― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia PlathEverything seems to be in working order; except one day, after hoping and hoping for a chance to set things right, to prove what he had meant in his letter, that he'd be there for Tony when Tony needs him, Steve is given the opportunity to. It just isn't what he had expected it to be. Not by a long damn shot.





	1. (╯︵╰,)

**Author's Note:**

> I am my own beta. I may have missed some typos/mistakes/blabla. This is an evergreen story and I am continuously re-reading and editing typos as I go. Tags to be edited/added as i go along and cough up chapters.
> 
> I have made it a personal challenge to take the ever so popular de-aging trope and incorporate that to this story. I am trying to see if I can take this silly trope and turn it to something "serious"; ya'll have see how Rebirth turned out. So here we go! Another ride!

(╯︵╰,)

  
Bob Dylan had once said: take care of all your memories for you cannot relive them.

In Steve’s experience, memories  are the only things that had served - and still does - as his anchor. It had kept him warm on the coldest nights, it had cheered him up on mournful moments and sometimes, it is his memories that makes him get up on his feet when all he wants to do is to just stay down and never get back up again. Lately though, it is his memories of the past ongoing four years that robs him of his sleep because Bob Dylan clearly had no fucking clue what he had been talking about; not when Steve relives the past four years every goddamn night. He isn't sure if the fact that he hadn’t been dreaming of Bucky falling into the icy crevice down beyond is a good thing or not. Hell, he isn’t even sure if not dreaming about saying goodbye to Peggy and her funeral, or dropping the plane into the arctic and the feeling of that painfully cold impact pretty much smashing into him like an unstoppable force is a good thing.

(You can still remember it, how the ice had gone into your skin, how the cold had embraced you like the lover you’ve never had and held onto you like a vice, as if that’s where you had belonged the entire time: a cold tomb.)

And maybe it would have been a good thing, if it meant that Steve had been moving past his grief, past his losses, accepting reality and finally just adjusting to the present.

Except it really isn’t a damn good thing, is it?

Not one fucking bit.

Because now, all Steve dreams about is the scream that that had torn itself past the throat of a man who had done everything he could to be fine, to look fine, always fucking fine and never better on that day Tony had woken up after being rescued fro. The mess in Nevada, the mess where Toy had cared little for his own safety, but had made sure that Bucky had been safe.

(Admit it, Steve. You had been hilariously surprised by that gesture at first; but as quickly as it had

formed, it had winked out too because this is Tony. A part of you had known all along that despite his ego, he would have been the one to lay down the line for the others to cross.)

Now, all Steve jolts awake to at night is the lingering memory of how Tony had looked at him that one Christmas morning almost a year ago (ten months and twenty two days, to be precise), how Tony had stood there as his face lost all its color until he had looked like one of the quarantined TB patients back in the day, ashy and white, eyes almost unseeing, a mere ghost of his former and usually vibrant self. The beginning would always vary between either the fight in Siberia or – and this bothered him the most – Peggy’s funeral.

The dream that starts with Siberia almost always – ninety-eight percent of the time – goes like this:

Bucky falls to the ground, arm gone from the blast of the unibeam and Steve feels the impact of his shield hitting armour and his arm moving to throw Tony off Bucky. As the nights would go by, the fight would grow shorter, and what should have been a couple of traded blows now ends up with Steve simply shoving Tony back and pushing him to the ground, until he is on top of him and raining blow after blow with his shield, and when the light in Tony's chest go out, the shield is held back and Steve reaches forward to yank the faceplate off, only to be greeted by eyes as black as the night sky and face as white as hospital sheets.

Steve would wake up then with a gasp, sweat on his brow and regret thick on his tongue, an apology wedged somewhere in the prison of his throat, escaping only when he exhales and syllables lost to the walls of his room and the memory of a dream that never quite fades completely.

Those dreams, though, are dreams Steve can deal with.

What he cannot deal with is walking down the church isle with the weight of a casket on his back that is far too heavy for a woman of Peggy’s built. The memory of her funeral had always fresh up until that Christmas morning. Now, Steve isn’t sure if there had been yellow roses or if they had been white, or if they had been roses to begin with. In this dream, when he goes to pay his respects at the open casket, it isn't Peggy lying in there in her uniform and beautifully done hair and painted rouge. It Is Tony staring up at him with eyes wide open and unseeing, as black as an abyss and looking alien, lips pressed into a thin line and expression as blank as his gaze. And that is when Steve would start to panic and turn around to stop the procedures of the funeral, to tell the priest to halt his prayers, to stop the speeches from Pepper, from Rhodey and even Natasha because Tony is alive, Extremis would never let him die and it still operational because that is what Extremis is programmed to do, can't you all see that! But the funeral would always continue on and no one would fucking listen to him even after his throat has gone raw from screaming at them that Tony is alive, are you blind, he’s alive, we cannot bury him!

But then they bury him, and once the ground is covered and the flowers are laid upon hole and casket on the ground and the fresh and damp earth starts to fill the chasm, that is when Tony’s scream starts, loud and long with a panicked pitch that never seems to end and one that falls on deaf ears except for Steve's. And here’s the fucked up part because when Steve gets on his hands and knees to stop them from burying Tony, it is Bucky and Rhodey who would grab him and hold him back, amidst the painful and desperate screams echoing from the prison of the coffin, against the strain and pull of Steve's suit, until it is buried deep in the ground and flowers covers the dirt. Only then would Bucky and Rhodey let him go and Steve would dig, and dig and dig and oh my god, Tony, Tony, hold on, Tony, I’m coming for you, just hold on, but Steve is never fast enough, because six feet feels like a hundred and by the time he gets to the coffin and he is tearing the lid of, the screams had long ago stopped and Tony is truly dead with his brown eyes staring at nothing, and his chest wide open with a destroyed and smashed arc reactor.

The very same arc reactor Steve had smashed down on repeatedly in Siberia.

And the entire time, Steve would realize that the scream isn’t coming from the coffin anymore, or that it isn't an echoing memory, because Tony is really dead, he had no beating heart anymore. Steve had been the one who had taken that away, he had been the one who broke it, he had been the one who had made sure that he had left Tony behind, smashed into several metallic pieces to freeze in the solitude of the cold with no one to protect him or help him stand up again.

The scream had never been Tony’s.

The scream had always been his own.

That is when Steve would jolt awake, that is when the scream attempts to come out choking past his throat, where fear, guilt and loss wars against years of military training, because when you are out on the field and in enemy territory, when you are in the middle of a stake out, whatever ghoulish nightmare that comes during the small rounds of sleep you manage to get, you learn how to silence that, you learn to sew your mouth shut and choke at the sound of your scream that never quite make it past your lungs because you can't get caught, you can't endanger your comrades, you have to stay quiet.

Even as your eyes fly open and you are staring at the ceiling and the scream is so goddamn loud in your ears, your mouth remains sealed, hushed, like your fears, your guilt and your grief that is a secret known only to you.

And when it's all over, when you finally remember that you're not really in the field, you are in the privacy of your room, the inhale of air you finally take then is painful, like there are holes in your lungs and you can hear it wheeze and gasp past the forced strain you subconsciously inflict upon yourself because no one can hear you scream, no one can ever know that you are terrified. Because you are the bravest amongst all, people take strength from you, you have no room for fear, don’t you dare show it.

That dream is always painful.

That dream would take hours to fade away.

So when Steve dreams that particular dream, he doesn't lie in bed and wait for it to ebb away and fade to a memory; he gets up, grabs his shoes and shirt and runs. Steve runs until the sun appears on the horizon, he runs until it is the feeling of fatigue in his lungs that dominates his senses and not the heavy weight of the nightmare that seems to have become a frequent nightly visitor.

The funny thing about his personal hell is that Steve can pinpoint the exact moment his sleep had taken a sharp turn for the worst.

It had been exactly four months ago, when Tony had been reinstated on active duty both as Iron Man and as a consultant by the Taskforce. After almost four years of silence, Iron Man once again, had flown in the skies during assignments that had required aerial support; most of the time, it had meant Iron Man worked alongside War Machine, Vision and Captain Marvel. The formality of the announcement had only come after the evacuation and rescue mission in Aleppo and the faces of the four man team had been all over the news. Upon return to the base and after being cleared by the med-bay, when Steve had gone running down the halls when he had heard, he had come face to face with Everett handing Tony a file with what Steve assumes, is Tony’s next briefing.

It is the first time Steve meets Tony face to face since that Christmas morning last year.

And Tony had looked up from the folder, as he had stood there in the middle of the hallway, dressed down in denims, sneakers and a white t-shirt, the smell of betadine radiating from the three butterfly clips on is temple, and a jacket folded over his arm. Tony had blinked, looking surprised like he had not been expecting Steve to be there at all. Now, Steve knows when Tony is faking recognition, he knows when the press-release mask slips on and when it slips off, he knows the difference between a forced smile and something that looks genuine, because a genuine smile is something Steve had gotten a glimpse of years ago, and once upon a time, it may have been directed at him, albeit briefly, because Tony had always looked away. The real smile would always look between cheeky, sheepish peppered with a bit of dorky boyish charm. It would reach Tony’s eyes, make him look infinitely younger, and the laugh lines would be soft as opposed to harsh when Tony is pretending to give a shit about you, when in all fairness, he honestly couldn't care less.

But _this_ smile, the one that tugs at Tony’s face, is _not_ familiar.

Steve cannot say it is fake, nor can he say it is real.

It had felt more like a function because behind it, are eyes that look blank, dark depths of burnt amber that belies not much, save for the words that leaves Tony’s mouth, words that sounds fairly surprised and just a touch curious.

“Captain.” Tony had greeted, with a dip of his chin and had looked back at his folder, and it had rooted Steve on the ground, like a deer caught in headlights because Tony isn’t looking away because he is purposely ignoring Steve. Steve had learned to read those kinds of moments too, and in those moments, Tony carries the strain on his shoulders and the joint between his upper and lower jaw would look tighter, like he’s grinding his teeth when he’s not because it is purely a subconscious physical gesture.

There had been none of that whatsoever, not even the slightest bit of strain and god, had Steve prayed for it.

Tony had looked away because he had assumed that Captain Steve Rogers is there, in the middle of the hallway for none other than Everett. And when Everett excuses himself, Tony had looked up and blinked, looking quite puzzled.

To the current day, Steve doesn’t know where the words had come from, or what had possessed him to even say what he had at the time, but it comes out like word vomit:

“It’s good to see Iron Man flying the sky again. Judging from the news, you got the whole world hyped up. Any trouble?” Steve had said, feeling nervous all of a sudden, like he’s unsure, it had almost felt like he was twelve again and he had been trying to talk to a girl during recess.

Tony shrugs in response and closes the folder to tuck it under an arm. “Apparently, well known terrorist groups are now recruiting Supers. But all toes and fingers have been accounted for. Everyone is okay except – well, those that got in the way I suppose.”

They lock gazes then, and Steve looks for an inkling of sarcasm, but all he can hear is jaded nonchalance and for a moment, Steve’s gaze flicks towards the now healing freshly patched up wound on Tony’s temple.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, and finds himself holding his breath for the answer, finds himself watching as lines appear between Tony’s brows, like he’s unsure what to say, like he’s disconnected and present at the same time.

“Always.” He answers, like it is an answer he is settling for, and Steve watches as confusion start to dominate the majority of Tony’s face. “Something up, Cap?”

And Steve knows he should say something, Steve knows that he should say the truth, that if he wants answers, he will only get them if he asks. But the words never form and Steve feels the taste of bitterness well like bile at the back of his throat.

“No.” Steve says, and looks away. And for the sake of small talk, because Steve can’t beat the politeness out of himself, he asks, “Is that a new mission?”

The smile that pulls up at Tony’s face is something that doesn’t quite sit well with Steve. It looks harmless, almost media appropriate, but it is the way Tony looks at him, that not even the smirk that is punctuated with a dramatic eye roll and an equally almost dramatic sigh had masked the empty reflection within. Steve feels a touch creeped out because this isn’t his friend, he doesn’t know this guy at all – it’s like meeting Tony Stark for the first time because everything Steve knows of Tony Stark, everything he had come to know be it consciously or subconsciously no longer adds up.

“Contract.” Tony answers and then gives Steve a mock salute. “Good night, Cap.”

That had been _it_.

Steve had hoped that an assignment would put them together at _some_ point. But that hope had remained unfulfilled. They are always assigned different assignments and while their teams rotated on occasion, Steve does not get an opportunity to even see Tony in person, except for maybe, that one time just a little before Valentine's Day when Tony had left the building. Steve had caught a brief glance of his back by the parking lot.

It is almost like a dance, how they completely just miss each other, with nothing but mere moments or seconds in between them.

And if the reality of his current “friendship” isn’t enough to push Steve over the edge, the political game surrounding him almost does.

(You do not understand how or when the world had changed to see good and justice as gambling chip. When did doing the right thing turn to, okay, what can I get out of it in return? Since when did people with power, with a duty and a responsibility, start questioning their stance in protecting the innocent? Courage has turned to white noise, as you have come to notice in countries that had over thrown their presidents and prime ministers simply by protesting and wreaking chaos and havoc – it isn’t just the people around you. It’s world. It has turned to something you no longer recognize, it is no longer black and white, it is just a stretch of hazy gray, peppered with static of internet keyboard warriors that you know – oh you know – are about as influential as those sitting on a countries’ throne or presidential suite.  

The world, you’ve come to notice, is full of tyrants.

The world, you’ve also come to notice, does not know what they want to do.

And sometimes, you find yourself wondering if what Loki had said was correct. Sometimes you wonder, if as a species, we really do crave subjugation.

Sometimes, you wonder, if fighting for what’s right is even right anymore. Because clearly, your stance, your beliefs, your courage, bravery and sacrifice is only being used as propaganda and ways to gain advantage – be it in the favor of the people, or political leverage.

Your existence seems to mean, well, _nothing_. You’re a pawn. Maybe you always have been.

But you’ve known this for years; you’ve lived that life even as the days when you were known in the streets as The Nomad. It feels different to finally not just sweep the feeling under the rug, doesn’t it, Rogers?)

The last straw had been SHIELD’s public relations finally hitting a huge shit-storm that the Taskforce had to get involved. Steve knows that it had been a disaster waiting to happen because that’s what happens with people with agendas is in control of an organization that packs a mean punch. Power will always, time and time again, be abused. Power had the strangest ability of turning good men bitter and cold; it breaks people. And while he doesn’t understand the full story behind the overhaul, he does know this: SHIELD needs a new face.

In a way, Steve thinks he should not be surprised when Tony releases a statement in the press conference confirming that he has stepping up as the new Director of SHIELD.

He really, _really_  shouldn’t be.

And yet he sits there, grime on his uniform, his hair matted from having fought in the Sahara, staring at the television screen of the common room of Taskforce’s housing facility at a loss of words, with nothing but the sound of Tony’s voice coming out of the television promising to deliver, to serve, to protect – Tony who sounds so far away and a man that Steve doesn’t even recognize anymore. Watching the news, watching Tony suddenly feels like waking up from the ice again.

It feels like there is no ground beneath his feet. It feels harder to swallow. It feels like the words around him are a foreign language and just when Steve thinks he is starting to get some ground again, that he has come to accept this new reality where he serves a gray-colored goal and perspective, this happens.

And it feels like he’s starting all over again.

“Did you know?” Steve asks, without turning his head.

Behind him, soft footsteps continue as Clint steps into the connected open kitchen to pull a beer out of the fridge.

“Corridor whispers. Apparently only the top of the tops knew.” Clint said, as the sound of the faint hiss fills the room and sound of the ring being pulled of the can punctuates his answer.

“I suppose he has the people’s favor. People call him the messiah these days.”  Steve sighs, unsure why he doesn’t feel quite happy with that. It doesn’t feel like a good thing; it feels like a curse.

“You can’t deny that Stark has done some pretty ground breaking shit. The Maria and September foundations have been – well, you’ve _seen_. First hand. He’s like the dude version of Mother fucking Theresa. Except he’s loaded. When you’re doing good for the people and ending hunger and poverty and providing self-sustaining power to the needy, then…”

Steve doesn’t need to turn to see the shrug. He wants to say he’s not sure, he wants to say that something really does feel off and Steve knows exactly what feels off.

Everything that Tony has come to achieve in the short four years stems from three simple things: hurt, betrayal and fear.

And while Steve thinks that whatever Tony has done for the good of the people is an absolute undeniably amazing thing, he has seen the house Tony returns to at night. He has seen what Tony has done to himself in order to continue to serve. He has seen the lengths Tony had gone through to ensure that everything he has done to sustain earth’s survival in case of an apocalyptic disaster remains in place and running. He has seen Tony start a generation of intelligent people, has seen him work with countries, with organizations and other international firms to cough out all these mind blowing ideas – ideas that even Steve cannot wrap his head around.

Tony had surpassed Howard by a long shot.

But Steve knows that these achievements didn’t exactly come easy. Not entirely.

“I’m ordering pizza.” Sam says and Steve realizes that he didn’t even hear him come in because he’s been staring at the television at watching multiple news coverage of Tony’s press release. “You want some, Steve?”

Steve gets up then, tearing his gaze away from the screen and giving Sam, Clint and Bucky a tired smile. “Nah. I’ll skip. I’m gonna call it a night.”

“You sure?” Bucky asks, and Steve finds himself unable to meet the pointed gaze Bucky is giving him.

“I’m sure. Good night, guys.” Steve doesn’t look back as he leaves the common room to head to the privacy of his own.

There, like many nights, he mulls things over and over again. He thinks of the colder and empty gaze that seems to have been accepted as the norm for a businessman like Tony Stark, as if everything prior that had been nothing had meant nothing. Steve thinks, under the spray of the scalding hot water that does nothing to wash the bone deep guilt and regret, He thinks of how Tony had looked at him like Steve’s existence then and there had been the biggest lie ever told. He thinks of what must have gone through his mind when he had been trying to manage his illness. He thinks of how Tony had managed to  pick himself up after Siberia.

And the sad thing about all this is Steve knows that for him to even have an opportunity to try to make it work with Tony is never going to present itself. Whatever opportunity he’s had in the past will not come knocking on his front door so quickly, assuming it even does at this point. Tony had made it clear in the past four years that he had no interest in being an Avenger anymore and while the recent diplomatic peace is mostly a message to the masses, Steve knows that the walls Tony had built and reinforced around himself will not come down easy, if at all. While Steve wants to respect those wishes, and he has tried his best to keep out of the way, to play his role in this new world of grays, to give Tony what he wants, something deep down is telling him that this is wrong.

It’s _not_ right.

Steve knows that the world had moved on and had long accepted this new version of Tony Stark. He is probably the only one who can’t.

But he knows better than to try to force things, to be that stubborn tree like what Peggy had once said one should be, to tell Tony, no, you move. Because Tony didn’t just take a step to the side. Oh no, Tony had moved and removed himself from the playing field completely.

And for a long time now, Steve had been questioning his ability and his judgment.

Because here’s the question that he can’t seem to find an answer to, after everything that has happened, after all the decisions he had made and how some of those had backfired against him so bad, after everything he had learned, had seen, had fought for, had healed from, the question still stands:

_Am I a necessary existence?_

__

The next time Steve meets Tony, it had pissed Steve off so much that just the memory of it is enough to trigger his apparently existing and very suppressed temper.  
  
(You learn something new, everyday.)

Steve and his three man team had recently returned from a month long assignment in Khartoum when things had gone a little awry. They had been present to coordinate with the Sudanese Taskforce Division and because their intel had miscalculated the rebel’s numbers, as a result, a fight had been inevitable and Steve, Bucky and Sam had returned to American soil with a little more than few bruises. It had been quite challenging to minimize casualties to zero. So perhaps the exhaustion, the heat, the mess of it all had been a massive contributing factor to his already very thinly spread patience.

Steve had just filed his report in and was about to call it a night when he hears Natasha call his name from the down the hallway. He had not seen her in weeks and so his surprise shows on his face when he meets her half-way. “Natasha.”

Natasha smiles in greeting and gives him a once over. Steve knows he looks like shit and while he had gotten most of the grime off his hands and face, he knows that his hair is darker than it should be. His gear is also not its usual blue, and the white stripes around his middle are almost as dark as the rest of his uniform. But he doesn’t complain, not when the fatigue makes way for genuine joy at seeing a friend. His line of work and Natasha’s very rarely coincide anymore, unlike the earlier months of Steve’s return to American soil and post-trial.

“I know you just got back.” Natasha says, and she sounds apologetic. “But we’ve got –“ And here’s where Steve notices the frustration, just a hint of it with how Natasha’s jaw tightens and how her gaze flicks briefly to the side like she’s measuring her words. “—we’ve got a situation.”

“Hey, come on.” Steve shakes his head, hoping that his willingness to assist calms her nerves down. “You knowI don’t mind. What can I do to help?”

Here’s where Natasha’s gaze softens and for a brief moment, a  mere flicker, Steve swears that she looks horribly disappointed and sad. Something about the slight shift in expression, however brief, makes something stiffen like drying concrete in Steve’s spine. He straightens, eyebrows knitting together. Natasha starts walking towards the medical bay, three buildings away. Steve doesn’t question her and simply follows.

“A couple of weeks ago, Vision, Tony, Carol and Rhodes were sent to Asia to investigate disturbances that the locals have described as supernatural. It  had been affecting the villages in the surrounding area for a while and they were being investigated by our Team in India and Nepal. They were minor things at first like things going missing;  cars, bikes, public property, inanimate objects. Never people. But a week ago, the neighboring villages in the outskirts of Garud in Maherandragar reported that _one_ of their said neighboring village is gone.”

“Gone.” Steve repeats.

“Yes. Not destroyed, not annihilated, but gone in the sense that people have vanished.”

“Like… an exodus?” Steve asks, as they start to cross the courtyard.

“An exodus would have left some sort of trail. According to our reports, there is just nothing. People just disappeared. No signs of struggled.” Natasha says. “Maherandragar was the trigger and then, within the course of a week, similar occurrences started to happen to _other_ villages around the area too, going as far as Chandigarth, Amritsar, even as far as a few districts in Islamabad and Kabul. This was all six weeks ago by the way. Two weeks ago, our team was sent back because the Taskforce that had been investigating the disappearances had also vanished. Tony had volunteered to go because of a personal interest. One of the villages had been a recipient of the September Foundation, so they volunteered and took the case. And well.” Natasha by the entrance of medical facility, pulling the door open for Steve.

“Is Tony all right?” Steve asks, and when Natasha doesn’t meet his gaze and her steps quicken, Steve feels his heart start to race. “Natasha?”

Natasha simply shakes her head and they take the private elevator, the one that takes them several levels below. It is the place where they treat volatile patients and Steve isn’t sure what to make of what he sees when Natasha takes him to a waiting room with an observation glass between the white and sterile room beyond and Rhodey’s losing his shit with Reed, Hank and the medical staff on the other side. Steve hears Rhodey’s voice from the down the hall and had hurried to see what is going on and at first, he hadn’t been sure.

Beyond the glass, there are medics trying to speak with what clearly looks like a very distraught boy. Steve thinks the child can’t be older than six at most, skinny and all sharp elbows and knees, small for his frame with a mop of thick brown hair on his head. The child isn’t responding to the cajoling by the medical staff and is backing away as far as the he can manage in the small hospital bed. His entire face is red, and when he shakes his head vigorously at what the doctor says, when there is a brief pause and they grab him to hold him down, the screaming starts. And when the screaming starts – long, loud, raspy, completely _breathless_ , that it reaches a point that the boy isn’t even inhaling when they stick a needle into the wiry arm -  Rhodey’s temper hits the roof.

“You’ve had him for seven days! What other tests can you possibly even _make_ at this point that you haven’t fucking done already?”

Steve doesn’t think he’s seen Rhodey this _angry_ before.

“What’s going on – who’s the kid?” Steve asks and sees Reed open his mouth to respond, except Rhodey bellows the name at his face.

“Tony fucking Stark! Who _else_ would it fucking be!”

And this is where confusion turns to something a little sour as Steve’s mind tries to piece this new reality to his current on, staring as the medical team extract tube after tube of blood samples and Tony – little, loud and struggling Tony – is held down in a vice as he screams and cries and begs for his mother. It isn’t until they start to strap him down that Steve thinks that this is _wrong_. There is no compassion in the treatment, there is care, no consideration that the boy is probably scared out of his fucking wits, it just isn’t right. It is almost inhumane. This isn’t the way patients should be treated, it should never be about getting the job the done at the expense of other people’s grief and fear – it cannot be. And something in Steve just snaps at the realization that this – _all this,_ the secrecy, the prodding and studying of a _child_ iike Tony is  some sort of guinea pig – is part of a system that is about as cold as the rest of the current population inhabiting the planet.

(That’s what it is; people are just colder, don’t you see?)

So Steve doesn’t wait, doesn’t even look back when he twists the metallic handle of the door out of shape, breaking the lock and stepping into the observation room, completely ignoring how Hank’s voice cuts across the room, loud and sharp, asking him to stop, or how Reed tries to step forward but ends up being pushed back by Rhodey. None of the commotion behind him registers and Steve  doesn’t know what he says in his fury that makes the medical team take several steps away from Tony, who in turn tries to curl around himself on the bed that is far too big for a boy his size. Steve’s hand almost rips the straps off as he kneels on the floor and carefully picks Tony off the bed to sit him up right.

“Hey, hey, buddy, it’s okay – they won’t hurt you anymore. Look at that, your arm is bleeding – I’ll get that fixed for you, okay?” Steve says softly, and gently, careful and patient despite the fire in his chest. He repeats the words, over and over until Tony’s eyes focuses on him and the cries dwindle down to hiccups, leaving Tony shaking and shuddering as his little chest _heaves_ up and down under the thin fabric of his hospital gown.

The resemblance is almost daunting – this close, Steve sees the man this boy will grow to be. He sees how innocent wide brown eyes will turn empty and walled-in, he sees the messy mop of brown hair shorten to what Steve imagines might be worth a thousand dollar haircut. He sees the small mouth that will harden to a thin line, sometimes mean, sometimes callous, but never quite losing its boyish charm. He can see the round face sharpen around the jaw, how the goatee will further contribute to the jaded man that Tony Stark grows up to be. Everything that Steve knows about Tony _now_ is the complete _opposite_ of the child that is trying to stay very still and catch his breath amidst the hiccups. Steve watches as Tony’s gaze meets his and his lips tremble with the effort to not cry anymore; it fails though, as the tears continue to cascade down his reddened cheeks and little shudders wracks through his small frame.

“My name is Steve Rogers. I’m you dad’s friend.” Steve says, and watches, with a bit victory, as glimmer of hopeful familiarity starts to shine in Tony’s eyes.  

And something very small and soft that is wedged somewhere in a little crevice of Steve’s heart breaks when Tony opens his mouth and tries to form words; what comes out instead is garbled stuttering. The boy tries again, once and twice, until he finally asks in words that are slightly mispronounced:

“I’m not sick, Captain. Can I go home, please?”

“I’m here to take you home.” Steve says, in a heartbeat and stands up to pick Tony off the bed. It’s almost too easy, how Tony’s thin arms wrap around his shoulder and his head wedges against his neck, hiding from the world. Steve picks up the blanket from the foot of the bed and throws it over Tony’s back as he makes his way to where Natasha stands smirking and Rhodey no longer seems to be arguing. “Colonel Rhodes, if it’s all the same to you, perhaps it’s a good idea if you be my escort to Stark Manor. Just to avoid stepping on any toes.”

“With pleasure.” Rhodey answers and makes his way down the hall.

Steve gives Hank, T’challa and Reed a nod. “Gentlemen.”

Through it all, Tony doesn’t move or make a noise, not even as they cross the courtyard to the parking lot. Steve had made brief call to Bucky during the walk to the parking lot and had asked him to bring some of his personal belongings over to Stark Manor. Within minutes, Steve finds himself sitting the backseat of a sedan while Rhodey drives them away from the facility, both of them in utter silence. It is in that silence that Steve watches Tony , who sits cross legged behind Rhodey, staring out the window with his fingers wrapped around the seat belt that cuts across his chest. Sitting there, it feels like Tony is drowning in the blanket that is wrapped around him, where everything around him, even the car seat is far too large, just like the world beyond the glass. He says nothing throughout, doesn’t ask for his parents, doesn’t ask where he is, or why, Tony just remains unmoving. Tony had been so compliant once he had seen the car and it had taken little to no cajoling to get him to sit tight and put a seat belt on.

And the silence continues even as they pull into Stark Manor’s driveway and the engine turns off. Tony doesn’t move from his seat, and looks at Steve with quiet regard, like he’s asking permission to get out of the car and enter his own home. Steve doesn’t even hesitate to get out of the car and come around, to take Tony out himself, lifting him with ease where Tony settles against his side and shoulder. Rhodey uses his access to the house to get him inside and once they step in and Friday turns the lights on, Steve feels Tony stiffen in his arms as he looks around at a house that he clearly does not recognize.

When Steve sets him down on the ground, and Tony looks around all over – the walls, the ceilings, the paintings – he knows that _nothing_ about this situation is going to be easy. He doesn’t stop Tony from running off towards the stairs, going up the steps and throwing doors open. Steve doesn’t stop him entering a room to find a study instead, and doesn’t stop him when Tony races down the hallway and tries to open a door that won’t budge and when Tony knocks and waits for a response and gets nothing, that’s when Rhodey mutters a curse under his breath. The lack of a response sends Tony darting down the hallway and into the kitchen, looking for someone he cannot find and when he peers into the garden from the kitchen window, Steve and Rhodey watches as his shoulder slump further down and he turns to face them and asks:

“Where’s Jarvis?” He asks, and sounds _afraid_.

“He’s not here right now.” Rhodey says, stepping forward and kneeling before the boy. “I didn’t get to introduce myself properly, before, Tony, and I apologize for that. My name is James Rhodes. I work for the American military and I’m kind of a friend of your dad. You can call me Rhodey. Steve and I are on the same team.”

Steve watches as Tony’s gaze flickers over to him then back at Rhodey. “But dad said the commandos are gone.”

“Well, we have a _new_ team now.” Rhodey says, outright _lying_ to Tony’s face; Steve does nothing to stop him. Tony does not look too convinced and Rhodey takes that opportunity to speak. “We’re in a bit of a mess right now, Tony. So until we figure it out, I need you to be a big boy and be the man I know you are, okay? Steve here, is going to be with you throughout. I really need you to be okay with this.”

Steve watches as Rhodey suddenly looks far too old when he reaches up to push the hair off Tony’s face, urging him to be brave, to step up, because there is _nothing_ about the entire situation. There is nothing natural about having one of the world’s most intelligent man turned into his toddler self. There is nothing in this reality that can even explain that phenomenon and if Hank and Reed isn’t able to piece together some form of explanation and come up with a theory to reverse engineer the process, then Steve isn’t even sure _who can_. And there, in the middle of it, is a boy who cannot understand why the house looks different, or why his parents or his caretaker aren’t anywhere in sight. Here is a boy who had spent two weeks being prodded, examined, scanned and whatever else Steve thinks they do these days to understand mysteries and still doesn’t understand what is happening to him. Here is a boy being asked to be an adult and isn’t that the most unnatural thing to ask of a toddler?

Isn’t Tony _already_ being an adult?

“Okay.” Tony says, and the words sounds like a mix of determination and stubbornness, of promise to deliver and yet unsure.

Steve cannot wrap his head around it.

He cannot understand how a child like this isn’t even freaking out at this very moment. He cannot even understand why Tony isn’t asking questions the way children do when they cannot find parents.

It isn’t _right_.

“Okay, that’s good. That’s good, Tones.” Rhodey says and Steve watches, with something tight in his chest as Rhodey wraps his arms around the little boy. “You be brave and when we have the right answers, we’ll explain everything to you. I gotta go right now, but Steve is here, okay? He’ll take care of you. Won’t you, Captain?”

Steve meets the piercing and hardened gaze that Rhodey directs at him because Steve knows that Rhodey had assignments to complete and people to answer to as to why Tony is what he is right now. Steve knows that Rhodey is going to be filling in two shoes and will be answering for two people; the Taskforce wants answers because when villages, teams and Iron Man himself are incapacitated, it is quite an alarming situation, isn’t it?

‘Yes, I will.” Steve says and watches as Tony peers up at him with knitted eyebrows.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it. If there’s anything you need, Steve, you know how to reach me. Tony, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Rhodey gives Tony’s head one last gentle pat before he gets up on his feet and exits the mansion.

Rhodey leaves man and child, standing in the middle of kitchen, staring at each other. It is Tony’s curious gaze that starts to flicker left and right, often looking up at Steve, like Tony is suddenly feeling unsure, whatever grown-up-confidence he had tried to muster earlier gone in blink. Steve watches as Tony’s hands start to fiddle with the hem of the flimsy hospital gown, lower lip moving left and right, like Tony is trying to decide if he should speak, or if he should stay quiet. The flickering glances up and away from Steve’s face continue until Steve decide to break the ice.

“So uh, look at us!” Steve says, reaching up and rubbing the back of his head, suddenly feeling ridiculously awkward. It crosses his mind that Tony must be feeling that too, seeing as Tony doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself.  “We’re gonna be stuck together for a while it seems. So uh, you hungry? I can make something… I…”

Tony’s cheeks start to redden very, very slowly. Something about that makes Steve smile and close the distance between them and coming to kneel down before Tony. “It’s okay, Captain. I’m not hungry.” Tony answers and starts to chew on the insides of his lower lip.

“Are you sure? I kinda’ am.” Steve gives a bit of an amused and self-depreciating chuckle. “I dunno if you noticed, but I’m not exactly in the best of states right now. I just got back from an assignment.”

Tony’s gaze flicks left and right, like he’s _hesitating_. “Like a mission?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods. “A mission. That’s right.”

“Was it hard?” Tony asks, and his eyes widen before he clamps his lips tightly shut; it is as if he’s not supposed to be asking questions.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I don’t mind you asking.” Steve says. “And no, it wasn’t very hard. But it was very, very long.”

“Is that why you stink?” Tony asks.

And it takes every effort on Steve’s end to not just throw his head back in surprised laughter lest he startles the poor already anxious boy. He does laugh though, amused and warm as he gives himself a bit of a sniff. “I suppose so, yes.”

“I can’t find my stuff, Captain. I can’t give you a shirt.” Tony says, and his little face drops in disappointment.

“The house is very different, isn’t it?” Steve says, careful, measuring his words.

“Yup. It’s okay. Mama does that sometimes. She reno-revo-revonates the house and changes stuff. She does it when she’s upset because Dad has been gone a long time.” He says, with a bit of a shrug. “Mama will tell me where my new room is when she gets back. She always does. So I just have to wait. Maybe the box-people will bring me some of my things and toys later. They always do. Jarvis would know when he gets back.”

Steve isn’t sure what to say. In fact, he isn’t sure what bothers him more. The fact that Tony is seemingly used to coming home to a different looking house _all the time_ , or the fact that he can rat off an explanation and a justification and not see how _wrong_ that is. Or the fact that this is the first glimpse Steve is getting into Tony’s childhood, the arrangements that had been made for him growing up, how it sounds like Tony had been left mostly to Jarvis’ care while Howard had been off god knows where for long periods of time while Maria had been left to deal with the business and her own can of worms. Steve isn’t sure about the _nonchalance_ behind Tony’s words or what to make of it. He isn't even sure how to start comprehending it.

But that explains _everything,_ doesn’t it?

“Yeah. I guess.” Steve says, going with it. “Well, we’re stuck with just my stinky uniform and that gown of yours, I suppose - ”

“I didn’t mean to call you stinky. M’sorry.” Tony says all of a sudden, very alarmed.

Steve chuckles and reaches out then to ruffle Tony’s hair. The gesture comes to him so easily that he doesn’t realize he’s doing until he notices how Tony’s lips are pressing down thinly to a repressed smile, like he’s trying to be a serious adult but clearly enjoying the attention.

“It’s the truth. And you know, if it’s okay with you, Tony, I’d like for the both of us to be very honest with each other, okay? Just until we figure this out. How does that sound?”

“Okay.” Tony hesitates and peers up at Steve. “What if I want to say something that’s not very nice?”

“If it’s the truth, you should say it anyway.” Steve counters.

“But mama said that if I can’t say something nice, I should not say it all!” Tony says and he sounds alarmed, like going against something his mother had taught him might get him into trouble.

“I’ll make you a deal.” Steve says and take both of Tony’s hands in his. “If you feel at any point that what you’re about to say to anyone is not nice, you can tell me first and then we can both tell them together. That way, if you get into trouble, I’ll be with you.” Steve smiles and somehow, the words forces a wedge into his throat, because, well isn’t that something, Rogers. Isn’t that just fucking _peachy._ “I’ll be with you no matter what.”

Tony looks at his feet. “Adults say that all the time. But I don’t think they mean it.”

“I do.” Steve says, “Tony, _I do_. I’ll prove it to you.”

There is desperation in the words, in how Steve holds Tony by the shoulders like he’s an anchor. Shoulders with curves that barely fit into Steve’s palms because god, Tony is so _small_. He’s so _helpless_ and maybe, just maybe, Tony has always been _small_ even after he’s grown tall, and his fortunes and empire had risen along with him, even when he had donned the suit of iron, had saved countless of lives – Tony is just that isn’t he? He’s just a little boy under all layers of shit that life had thrown at him and had forced him to bury somewhere deep down for no one to ever take advantage off because oh look at you Steve, telling him to be _honest_ with _you_ when you, oh you hadn’t been. Not entirely. Remember?

Tony’s eyes, though, are bright and large, wide and open and there, Steve can see the hope glimmering like the galaxy in the amber depths. He watches the small smile tug shyly out of the boy’s lips, the smile that resembles Tony’s genuine ones, the ones that had made him look so  _young._ There is something so jarring about it that for a moment, just a brief moment, Steve feels some sort of chasm start to rip wide open somewhere in his chest, and something jagged catch in his breath because, gosh, gosh Tony is looking at him like he’s someone _good_.

This is Tony _agreeing_ to trust him unconditionally.

“Okay.” Tony says, and cheeks rosy and dimples dotting his right cheek.

And Steve will be _damned_ if he didn’t do things right _this_ time.

 

TBC

 

So that took forever but I think I have the pace set on this chapter.  I am aiming for something lighter compared to Rebirth; aiming here is the keyword. Not sure if I’m achieving that given the set up chapter, but well, hopefully next chapter will be better. Had to go through so many re-writes but, the first chapter of any fic for me is always the toughest due to the tone setting. In that regard, I have chosen this particular trope in hopes that I can explore key points of Tony's past that have been hinted in Rebirth and expand on it here.

That and well, this trope is almost always fun. I admit to being just a touch nervous.  
  
Hoping for better/faster updates from now. And hopefully longer chapters too!

Thanks for reading this far and like with Rebirth, I hope you'd give this a chance.


	2. щ(ﾟДﾟщ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am pretty sure there are typos. I am my own beta. I may have missed some typos/mistakes/blabla. This is an evergreen story and I am continuously re-reading and editing typos as I go. Tags to be edited/added as i go along and cough up chapters.

щ(ﾟДﾟщ)

Sam doesn’t want to say he’s an idiot.

He doesn’t like to think he _is_ one.

But Sam had spent exactly a solid hour on the plush carpet in one of the drawing rooms at Stark Manor, watching as Tony put together the Taj Mahal,  _one_ of the ten Lego box sets Pepper had dropped off earlier during the day. Sam hadn’t been aware of the entire situation and would have likely remained in the dark for a while had he not bumped into Bucky the previous evening. They had agreed to have dinner together at the connecting mess hall of their current HQ and Sam had every intention of grabbing Steve to join them too; so he had been quite surprised when Bucky had shown up, as per their agreement, but with a duffel bag filled with Steve’s belongings. Sam admits to being so surprised that his eyebrows had gone so high up his forehead, to know that Steve requires his _belongings_ in – and of all places – _Stark Manor_.

And now there they are, three grown ass men, Captain America’s entire three-man team, watching Tony put together a toy that according to the box, is meant to be for children fourteen years old and above, in record time. It had been Steve’s idea, in hopes that it would keep Tony busy (and for a lack of something else to do after having a very long breakfast over some cartoons), to open up _one_ of the Lego sets. And really, Tony had not even hinted at wanting _any_ help in interpreting the instructions. He had looked quite excited when Steve laid out the box on the floor for him, sitting cross legged on the carpet and trying to be very still. Tony had been careful too, as he had opened the box and only took out the instruction sheet, looked at it for good five minutes, had turned it this way and that, and then had gotten straight to work.

All this had been done in _silence_.

And the three of them had exchanged looks over Tony’s head as he had started laying out the foundation, all the way up to minarets.

Sam is still in shock.

He remembers getting a Lego set a long time ago for his fifteenth birthday, back in the day when Star Wars and Star Trek had been all the rage, and he remembers how he had spent _weeks_ trying to build the fucking Millennium Falcon and failing spectacularly. Hell, he doesn’t even know _how_ the Lego Company decides which set is appropriate for which age bracket because Sam _knows_ that Lego is quite hard and is, if he wants to put it quite politely, _fucking challenging_.

Steve had given up trying to help Tony build his Taj Mahal within the first five minutes after Tony had set aside the instruction manual and had left him to it, opting to sketch instead. Bucky had remained unmoving from the couch, nursing a bottle of beer.  But Sam hadn’t been able to take his eyes off observing Tony. The boy is quick, and apparently, can read too. And while Tony’s reading and writing ability isn’t at its best, seeing as the boy still mispronounces a good chunk of his words, his reading level for a five year old is too advanced.

His age had been the first thing Sam had asked when he had introduced himself to Tony and he had gotten very a shy I-am-almost-five response that Sam hadn’t been able to stop himself from grinning.

 _Almost five my ass_ , Sam fiinds himself wanting to say, just as Tony begins assembling the last pillar.

“You’re kinda’ good at this.” Sam says, because really, he cannot get over this shit.

It is almost _unfair_.

“I like Legos.” Tony responds, even if his hands doesn’t stop working. “Legos are fun.”

“You know, not every kid I know who is almost-five can build a Lego Taj Mahal.” Sam points out.

“Because they don’t have Legos?” Tony asks, pausing and looking up at Sam, blinking and confusion tugging at his round face.

Sam doesn’t miss the amusement that tugs at Bucky and Steve’s face. “Well, that too, but mostly because it’s difficult.” Sam says, as he points at the box. “Even fourteen year olds would not be able to assemble it in under an hour like you.”

Tony’s frown deepens as he looks at the box and fiddles with a piece in his hand. “Then, am I doing something wrong?”

“No!” Steve says, a little too quickly and a little too defensively. “No, Tony, that’s not what Sam meant.”

Sam _almost_ rolls his eyes at Steve at that point, because it had been blindingly _obvious_ just how overly protective Steve is being with Tony from the moment Sam and Bucky had stepped into the manor to deliver Steve’s things. Sam had seen it in the way Steve is careful around Tony, how he dots around him, gives him his _full_ attention, how he looks at him; the funny thing about it is that it hasn’t even been a solid twenty-four hours since Steve had landed himself as Tony’s unofficial guardian in Rhodey’s absence.

(And you know that this comes from guilt. You watched how Steve had gone from being headstrong about the Accords all those years ago to yielding to it. You had been there when you watched devastation cross his features at the realization that maybe, just maybe, his way isn’t the right way at all. Not entirely. You had been there too, towards end, when Steve had started to get distant, more recluse, hardly joining in the things he would normally take a part of like dinners, or birthdays and even if he had been present at those times, even if they had been hard times because there is nothing easy about hiding from the law, you had picked up on the cheery fronts Steve had tried to maintain – always nice, always polite, always encouraging and never once, did Steve show fear. Never once did he show his regrets, not consciously. But you saw it happening, gradually and you can pin-point the exact time that had happened: it had been the night Tony had left his hospital room in Wakanda.)

“What I _meant_ , Tony,” Sam says and throws Steve a look over the boy’s head, silently saying, _really, let me handle the talking, please_. “Is that I think you’re pretty cool and smart.”

Tony goes completely still at that, staring at his hands; he almost looks severely disappointed. “Oh.” And then he picks up another piece and continues to carefully finish his pillar.

“Ohhhh, as in you don’t agree?” Sam asks, and throws a look at Steve and Bucky.

“Not really.” Tony says, with a bit of a one shouldered shrug.

“Why not?” Steve asks, frowning.

“I’m not smart enough.” Tony says and Sam thinks it is the most self-depreciating thing he had been subjected to and that is saying something considering how Sam had dealt and met with a lot of people, including traumatized soldiers. The fact that this is coming from an almost-five-year old _child_ is not lost to him.

“Who told you that?” Sam asks, and reaches over to give Tony’s shoulder a gentle nudge. “Kiddo, tell me who said that so I can teach them some manners.”

“No one.” Tony says, and peers up to meet Sam’s gaze.

“Well, then why would you say something unkind about yourself, Tony? Do you really believe that?” Sam asks. “That you’re not smart enough?” When Tony nods, Sam thinks it’s sincere. “ _Why?_ ”

“I can’t build useful stuffs to help people. Like robots to save the sick or to help with the wars and fights. I can’t do anything. So I’m not smart enough.” Tony shrugs. “Mama says I have to be patient and just keep trying to study and learn new stuffs; but I think I am just slow. I am good with Lego and I figured out the circuit boards stuffs – but Lego and circuit board stuffs won’t help people.”

Sam isn’t even sure how to _respond_ to that; none of them are. What do you tell a child who thinks too little of himself just because he doesn’t seem to realize that a five year old isn’t supposed to be coming up with strategies and technology to end wars or assist with the quality of living of the general populace? What do you even say to a child who is so convinced that despite their own advanced learning curve, their intelligence is not good enough? What do you eve say to a boy who is far too comfortable in being by himself, in a completely foreign looking house, with three strangers? Who measures his movements and tries to act like an adult, who remains quiet and yet observes and calculates like a mathematician? Sam had spent exactly half a day with Tony and he can already point out at least three major red flags in the child’s behavior.

“Is that what you wanna do, Tony?” Sam asks, thinking that it’s best to steer Tony away from negative talk about himself. “To help people?”

Tony’s are bright when he looks up from his almost complete Taj Mahal, the dimple on his cheek hollowing. He nods and then as if he can no longer contain his excitement, he shifts in his seat to kneel and, toothy smile tugging at his face - it's ridiculously adorable. Tony fucking Stark had been a _cute_ kid. “I’m gonna make lots of robots and lots of other stuffs to protect people from wars and fights! I’m gonna help people who are super sick and have no feet and hands walk and write and play! And then, and then, I’m gonna make homes for all the poor and then all the children can have everything I have – they can have Legos, too! Because Legos are fun! And then everyone will be happy and no one’s gonna fight anymore and there will be no more wars and stuffs! That way everyone will always have Mamas and Dads and families-peoples and no one is gonna be alone! Ever! And then, that way, mama and dad can be happy too and we can go to the beach more!”

The silence that passes after the excited and determined outburst is so thick that Sam swears he can hear his own heart beat echo in the room. Steve is looking away at some spot by the fireplace, jaw tight and Sam gets it. He really, _really_ does.

(This is all kind of fucked up.)

“Is that so?” Sam says, soft and quiet.

“Yup!” Tony says and as if on cue he falls quiet like the rest of them, eyes darting between Steve, Sam and Bucky on the couch. Sam hadn’t been wrong with noticing Tony’s observation skills because just as he had predicted, the frown tugs the previously cheerful and excited face to something more somber and peppered with panic. “Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry!”

“Tony, how long has your mom and dad been gone for this time?” Steve asks, almost hesitant.

“I think thirty-eight? I marked it in my room.” Tony says. “But that’s okay! They’ll be back! And dad promised mama that we will go to the beach for my fifth birthday!”

The smile on Tony’s face is sincere and so excited that Sam thinks it’s almost cruel to continue the conversation.

“What if they miss it?” Steve asks and when Tony looks a little worried, he adds, “Because you know how busy your mom and dad can get, right?”

“That’s okay. It shouldn’t be so, so long this time.” Tony says, nodding, sounding quite confident.

“How come?” Sam asks, exchanging looks with Bucky.

“Because dad found Captain America.” Tony says and grins. “He won’t be so, _so_ busy anymore! I bet he’s just wrapping business and company stuff up now!”

Sam watches as Steve’s face crumples as he looks away and Tony returns to finishing up his Taj Mahal. And if there’s one thing that Sam is sure of what Steve is feeling in that very moment, it is ice cold guilt.

__

Steve isn’t sure what to feel. He reaches a conclusion, however, that truly, there are still things in this world that can surprise him and render him beyond speechless.

Loki, clearly, hadn’t done enough in _that_ regard.

Watching a man appear and disappear through a vortex of light before his eyes, for the time being, does it. Steve had though that seeing Tony shrink to his almost-five year old self had been the icing on the cake.

Once again, Steve had been proven wrong.

Steve stands there watching Strange assess Tony, next to Rhodey and Bruce. He watches as emblems and crests of light appear behind Tony’s head from where the boy is sitting quite stiffly on an antique looking chair, wide brown eyes following Strange’s hand movements, his little head tilting almost in tandem with Strange’s own studious gaze. This goes on for a while and just as Steve predicts from spending too much time around Tony, Tony gets bored of the entire ordeal and starts looking at everything else around the room. Steve can see the boredom with how Tony starts to fiddle with the hem of his shorts, how he wiggles in his seat but not really getting up from it, all the while trying to move as little as possible; Steve had tried to correct that, telling Tony that it's okay, he can relax but all he had gotten in response is,  _mama says it is important to be polite and it's rude to draw too much attention to yourself when adults are busy talking important stuffs_.

When Thor had come in to check in on what had happened himself, it had been upon his recommendation that they visit a ‘specialist’ who just so happens to be at New York. Steve cannot say that he had felt even remotely reassured about _anything_ from the moment he had stepped into Strange’s company. He cannot even say that he trusts him at this point having not known him or having not heard of him at all. The only profile he can pull up on Stephen Strange is that he had been one of the best neurosurgeons around and after a critical accident, apparently, from what Steve can clearly see before his eyes, he had changed professions and had turned into a fully time wizard.

Steve still, for the life of him, cannot get it.

Then again, Thor himself, didn’t make a lot of sense, in all fairness.

At first, that is.

“Hmmm.” Strange hums, crests and emblems vanishing. “You can take a closer look if you want, Tony.” Strange cants his head towards the armor. “Go.” Tony doesn’t wait and hops off the chair to go study a medieval armor in the corner of the room.

“Please tell me you got _something_.” Rhodey says, looking a little shaggy with thicker hair on his head and scruff on his chin. With this much hair on his usually clean shaven head, his age is more prominent due to the now more obvious receding hairline.

Steve can hear the desperation in Rhodey’s voice and he likes to think that he got the easier end of the deal with babysitting. Rhodey had to cover up for the very large political and strategical absence that Tony Stark had left behind while being War Machine. And while Rhodey had somehow managed to cough up excuse after excuse for Iron Man’s absences, Steve _knows_ – oh, how he _knows_ – that it’s starting to get difficult with this being the third week and still counting. They aren’t alone in the playing field because the Winter Soldier and Falcon had been temporarily absorbed into War Machine’s team. There are days where Steve and Rhodey rotate between being Tony’s guardian; most of the time, to avoid stepping on toes and to not aggravate the still delicate footing Captain America still stands on, more often than not, it is Steve who stays behind. He likes to think that after all that’s said and done, Rhodey trusts him to some degree. Or at least, Rhodey trusts him to babysit a child but not handle international relations, lest it undoes all of Tony’s efforts.

Well, it isn’t like Steve can _blame_ Rhodey for his decision.

Steve had no interested in dealing with the politics anyway.

(That is not to say that the Tony’s attachment and more obvious cooperation with Steve had not gone unnoticed by those who have met him; in a way, you are relived and think this is a blessing in disguise, that at least, _this_ Tony can stand to look at you and be around you. More than you’d like to admit, it has been a balm to your wounds, the way the boy looks up at you without care for your station, or how he holds onto your hand because to him, you’re the safest person to be with.)

“I wish I could help you. But right now, there is nothing I can do.” Strange says as he makes his way towards the table and the empty tea set refills itself.

Steve can feel a headache start to pound at the back of his head _just_ by looking at _that_. As if the cape and high collar hadn’t been enough, or the judging gaze Strange had thrown in his direction from the moment he had stepped into the threshold of the building.

“You’re kidding, right?” Rhodey says, eyes darting between the puzzled gaze at the tea set and scowling in Strange’s face. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“It is a very unstable spell, I’ll give you that. Quite delicate.” Strange says as he sits himself and takes a sip of his tea. “Tea, Doctor Banner?”

“No, I’m good.” Bruce says and opts to take a step back and join Tony in the far corner of the room.

Steve doesn’t blame him.

He really can’t.

“What the hell does _that_ mean?” Rhodey says, a hint of hysteria slowly sliding into his tone.

“It means that if I interfere, there’s no guarantee that Stark would come out of it alive and well, whether or not his psyche will revert to what it was before the incident, whether it would simply be physical change and his psyche remains the same as it is right now – I can go on and on with probabilities. It does not change the fact that it is a delicate and quite an imperfect spell. It is a risk even I am not willing to take. Not at this point.”

“ _Why?_ ” Rhodey asks, sitting himself down heavily on the chair.

“Because it is an attempt to create a spell that manipulates _time_.” Strange pauses and flicks his gaze between Steve and Rhodey. “Tell me, Colonel Rhodes, what did you find in Nepal three weeks ago when you and your team had gone to investigate the disappearances? What conclusion have you reached?”

“You know I can’t answer that.” Rhodey says, and Strange gives him a pointed look, flicking a gaze back to Tony’s hunched figure over a trebuchet model, then back to Rhodey. “Inconclusive findings.”

“Ah.” A very vague smirk tugs at Strange’s features. It goes almost as quick as it comes. “Unlike the spell that was used in those sites, Tony’s is incomplete. Similar patters, similar signatures.”

Steve frowns. He remembers what Natasha had told him nights ago, he remembers how the villagers had just disappeared, and how it had looked like an exodus when it hadn’t been. Steve can connect the dots and when he does, he feels something akin to cold dread settle in the pit of his stomach. The realization must have hit Rhodey too because he curses darkly under his breath, just as Steve turns to look at Tony across from room, that little boy who looks up from where he is kneeling on the ground, not observing a scroll behind a glass display to smile so toothily at Steve, eyes bright before his attention is stolen once more by Bruce.

 “ _If_ the spell had been completed, Tony Stark, like the rest of those villagers would have been _erased_ from existence. Well, erased may be a very bold statement at this point, but that seems to be the goal.” Strange says, tone even and betraying nothing; he had practice after all, being the most sought out neurosurgeon and tackling near hopeless cases. “Maybe he distracted the spell caster. In a way, the fact that Tony is still here, is a good thing. That gives me the opportunity to monitor the progress of the spell and better understand how to undo the chain events that is still afflicting Nepal and it's surrounding regions. I believe, Colonel, that is has reached Taiwan, now?.”

Steve looks at Rhodey and a moment passes between them. “I’ll look through Iron Man’s visual drives once more, see if there’s something that was missed that can point us to Voldemort. I've looked and looked and there was nothing but it won't hurt to look again.” Rhodey does not look too convinced; Steve knows it would have been the first thing he must have checked at the time.

“There is one more thing.” Strange says as he tilts his head towards Tony. “I’ve placed a talisman on Tony, that should at least alert me of changes the spell makes.  I am, well,” Strange stands then and hands out a card to Rhodey and Steve. “I’m hopeful that the spell would break on its own. The string that holds it together does not look like it will hold. You know how to reach me.” A beat passes. “Or find me.”

Strange steps away to climb the stairs, just as the front door swings open like an invitation for them to get out.

“You trust him?” Steve asks Rhodey.

“What choice am I left with?” Rhodey says, movements jerky as he shoves the card into his pocket. “Thor seems to think he’s legit. Gods know best, right?” Steve can think of a million ways to respond negatively to that remark, but holds his tongue. “Steve, I’m really sorry for dumping you on this.”

“Don’t apologize.” Steve says as he turns to look at Tony who is waving at him by the door where he and Bruce are waiting for them to leave. “I _want_ this. I haven’t given you much reason to trust me yet, but,” Tony’s toothy grin drops as he gives Steve a bit of an impatient look, with hands on his hips. Steve imagines it must be the same way Maria must have stood all those years ago, when she is feeling impatient with Tony. “trust me when I say that I will watch over him.” Steve sees the way Rhodey eyes him, expression blank if not for his gaze hardening. “I swear it.”

Rhodey doesn’t say anything.

But he doesn’t take Tony’s temporary custody away from Steve either.

(You take comfort in this.)

It takes a few tries but Steve is able to convince Rhodey to allow him to take Tony out a few times as the days pass by. Steve takes him to the park and then the local county fair and sometimes, he just takes Tony out to dinner. It had been a bit of a touch and go because none of them had wanted to risk exposure but Tony had been more than willing to play pretend and keep his identity a secret. Getting him to agree to that had been a little _too easy_ ; getting Tony to do anything that involves lying and pretend and keeping discreet is far too easy and with each time, Sam had conveyed his concerns that it isn’t _normal_ for a child of almost-five to be so _agreeable_ , it isn’t even normal. Tony’s entire _behavior_ is far from normal and this is something Steve is more than willing to pretend isn’t true because Tony is a good sport and is probably one of the most cooperative children there is, so much so, that even Clint had been too impressed and wishes that he could get his son to agree to things as fast. And while it helps that Tony mostly keeps to himself and tries not to bother anyone, going through his Lego sets repeatedly, or trying to put together circuit boards from whatever scrap Friday had been able to find in the workshop, there are times when Steve cannot quite dismiss the gut feeling that _something_ is most definitely off. Steve puts off the warning Sam gives him, tucks the red flags away because Tony is a good kid, there is absolutely _nothing_ wrong with him, he’s just very intelligent and very mature for his age.

(Or so you keep telling yourself, even though the thought and observations keeps you awake most nights.)

Sure enough, that _something_ finally starts to manifest by the fifth week.

At first, they had been small things, with Tony turning down play-time out in the garden or the pool. Then it had moved up to Tony not wanting to finish his meals, even when Steve had purposely made his favorite spaghetti and meatballs. Then it had moved up to Tony just not wanting to go out, or not feeling like going out, opting to sit indoors and watch cartoons instead, cartoons he doesn’t really watch because Tony is almost always looking out the window, like he’s waiting for something. The smiles  come less, the chatter, the pretend-play, they all gradually dwindle to something quiet and very distant. For a brief moment, Steve thinks that maybe it is the spell’s doing, but Strange dismisses the notion after coming in to check on Tony one evening.

(That confirmation forces you, as much as you try to fight it, to finally face reality. You’re terrible at this, Stevie-boy.)

The real confirmation comes when Tony just stops watching cartoons and spends most of his day sitting by the piano. Friday would stream music sheets that Tony knows and would practice for an hour or two, but after a while, Steve would catch Tony just sitting there, staring at the piano keys, legs hanging limply from the bench.

They are entering the seventh week.

One evening, in an attempt to get Tony to talk or at least communicate what he thinks is wrong, Steve makes a small tray of lasagna and pours Tony a large glass of orange juice. He watches as Tony’s faces lights up at the kitchen table.. Steve had also made apple pie and had gone as far as lighting candles and getting Friday to stream Tony’s favorite cartoons in the kitchen. At first, it works and Tony’s smile and excitement is bright that for a brief moment, Steve thinks he had struck gold in getting Tony out of his funk. Tony manages about three large spoonful of lasagna from his plate, but Steve is not blind, nor is he oblivious. He watches, as Tony looks at the candles and the pie, watches as brown eyes dart at the empty chairs and empty kitchen. Steve watches, with something tightening in his chest with each ticking second, as Tony just looks at the candles that are burning, and attempts to try to finish his dinner. Three large spoonfulls turns to four, which Steve thinks is a good thing considering Tony had just poked at his breakfast that morning and took about two bites off his lunch sandwich.

Steve may not know a thing or two about raising children, but he isn’t a fool.

And maybe a part of him had been hoping that it wouldn’t boil down to this, that he would never had to _ask_ Tony what’s really bothering him because Steve knows, if Tony asks him where his parents were, Steve isn’t sure if he’d able to lie.

(And you don’t want to lie. No more lies because you promised yourself, somewhere down the line without you realizing, when you had agreed to take care of Tony willingly, that you would do everything to not repeat your mistakes. You had danced around him for weeks, had done your best to distract him, and maybe that had been your short-coming.

Because you don’t want to admit how you liked doing this, how you _liked_ being the center of Tony’s attention. You do not want to admit that you feel _joy_ when you ask Tony what he wants for dinner, his immediate response is, ”Steve’s Spaghetti!”  
  
You don’t want to admit out loud that you feel your pride swell like a large hot air balloon in your chest when Tony would turn and smile at you, when you are the first person he comes running to. Not Pepper, not Rhodey, but _you_. You like it when Tony seeks _your_ approval. You like it when Tony tries to impress _you_ by showing his work, his drawings, his completed puzzles, his circuit boards, to you _first_. You like it that Tony puts you first amongst everyone around him, that even something as small as drawing-time, Tony always draws _you_ first, that his yellow, blue and red crayon are the most used out of all the two hundred colors. You like it that Tony says, “Steve’s sandwich is the best,” even if it is nothing but slapped on peanut-butter and jelly on bread, something that anyone can prepare. And most of all, you find something in your chest pulsing warmly, that when it comes to going out, or pool-play-time or garden-play-time, Tony’s first question is always: is Steve coming too?

That’s why you’ve been trying to dance around the issue of his parents’ absence, that’s why you do not _dare_ bring up or mention Howard or Maria or even Jarvis name in any shape or form. Because you don’t want to let go of that moment of joy you feel, something so foreign and so addictive, that Tony _accepts_ you for you, that he’s not afraid to embrace you, or ask you to carry him, that he isn’t afraid to _look_ at you. Because you haven’t felt this much joy in a long time, you had not known that you are even capable of feeling something like and a part of you feels like a tool for taking pleasure in _all this_ , when Tony’s own little heart must be breaking from the poignant absences of those that matter to him. A part of you feels guilt for probably being the only one, between yourself and Tony, who is _happy_.

Because being happy is a foreign concept to you. Being happy is a dream of a young military man who had so long ago died when he crashed that jet into the arctic. That young man, who had been optimistic, who had firm beliefs for the good of all mankind, who had not been _that_ jaded yet, after so many years, had finally opened his mouth in a gasp, drawing in some form of breath.

It feels like that young man had finally broken free from the ice that had buried him so long ago.

And you, Steve Rogers, you’ve been starved of breath, huh?)

Steve starts to feel his palms sweat, and his throat tighten. It is all the tell-tale signs of the sudden lack of confidence and a whisper of his sickly past. Steve tries to get his shit together, to calm down and tells himself that this _needs_ to be dealt. It needs to be addressed. That enough is enough because for the past four weeks, he had been more than selfish and it is time to stop and put Tony ahead of him. Steve places a hand on his knee to still it from the rapid heel tap he finds himself doing without realizing, while Tony remains oblivious to his nervousness. Steve knows it’s just better to just plough through, and that is what he does after sucking in a deep breath, and asks:

“Buddy, is the lasagna gross?” Steve blurts. Steve almost wants to punch himself squarely in the forehead because _really, is the lasagna gross, are you a fucking idiot, Rogers? That isn’t the point._ But Tony simply shakes his head. “I am a little worried, buddy, because you haven’t really touched your plate much and I’ve noticed that you haven’t even been eating right the past several days and, well, you know, I don’t want to you to think that you’re obligated to eat something I made. And I’m a little worried – you might get sick, or maybe you are already sick, is your stomach feeling queasy?”

Steve is almost _disgusted_ with himself because where the flying _fuck_ did that come from when the question should have been: _Tony, is everything all right?_

“It’s really good, Steve.” Tony answers. “I like your lasagna.”

“You do?” Steve blinks, warmth slightly tainting his cheeks, momentarily distracted by his inner self depreciating monologue. A part of him, while happy by the admission, had hoped that something really had been wrong with the lasagna.

“Yes. It’s very nice. Mama would–“ Tony tenses and picks up his orange juice and takes a long sip. He doesn’t continue the sentence and instead, he picks up his spoon and starts scooping some of the sauce of his plate.

Steve waits a full ten seconds because he prods, against his better judgment. “Your mom would what?”

“She would like it.” Tony says, but doesn’t meet Steve’s gaze. “She likes lasagna too.”

“Does she makes it for you often?” Steve asks.

“No.” Tony answers, eyebrows pinching.

“Why not? I mean, if it’s your favorite…”  Steve asks.

“Sometimes she does. Like maybe on my birthday. But not always.” Tony shrugs, dismissive. “I don’t think she’ll make it this year.”

Steve knows that his face betrays nothing, that his facial features likely doesn’t even shift to betray how his heart suddenly starts to ram behind his rib cage, hard and fast like consecutive punches from within.  He doesn’t want to ask why, he really, really _doesn’t_.

“Why would you say that, Tony? I’m sure she’ll make it if you ask her.” Steve says and it feels like a horrid lie, like acid slithering down his tongue because _how would you know Steve, you weren’t there!_

“Maybe. But I shouldn’t ask for things that will get in people’s way. Mama is very busy, just like dad. So it doesn’t really matter in the end.” Tony shrugs and Steve watches with mounting anxiety as Tony’s chin crinkles and his brows furrows. He watches as Tony starts to blink his eyes rapidly before he quickly reaches forward to pick up his orange juice and takes a sip. Steve watches as this almost-five year old boy _fight_ the need to feel _sad,_ and not for the first time, when it is his every right as a child. He watches Tony try to get his shit together and turns to look at Steve with eyes that are far too bright, and a voice that is not steady at all. But Tony still tries, just as he always does for the past seven weeks, to put up a brave face, to stop the tears from falling down. “Can I go play the piano, Steve? Please?”

Steve had always had his own assumptions of why the adult Tony had behaved the way he did, always poor with communication, always dancing around subjects that matters, not wanting to admit what’s really wrong, making excuses for everything that _is_ wrong, belittling his achievements as just another day in the job – Steve had assumed that the notion to erect so many walls had started when he had been shipped off to boarding school, as Tony had so candidly liked to throw bits and pieces of his not-very-much-spoken-of-past at their faces when the team had been whole. Watching Tony _now_ , sitting so still on his high chair, hands firmly on his lap and – _oh god_ – trying not to break down in tears when any child, _any person_ , would have done so weeks ago, makes Steve question _all_ his assumptions.

Every. Single. One.

Steve stands from his chair on knees he can barely feel and carefully picks Tony off his chair, setting him down on the floor and kneeling before him.

“Of course you can. You can do whatever you want. I know how much you love playing the piano. I would never stop you from doing anything you love and enjoy, Tony. Do you understand?” Steve asks and Tony carefully nods. “So I don’t want you to ever feel afraid to ask anything of me. Okay?” Steve feels his hands tighten a little protectively around the curves of Tony’s shoulders.

Tony’s breaths start to come out a little too quickly, but his gaze holds Steve’s as he tries his mightiest to keep his chin up. “T-Then, can I ask you a p-personal question?”

“Anything.” Steve says, even when all he wants to do is dismiss the question and look the other way.

“When is Mama and Dad and Jarvis really coming back?” Tony asks and it leaves Steve feeling like the most wretched piece of existence on the planet.

This is it.

It is the moment of truth.

And Steve opens his mouth to lie, to tell Tony that Maria and Howard are on a very long business trip in Tokyo where they are negotiating big projects for Stark Industries. His tongue readies itself to also tell Tony that Jarvis is currently undergoing additional training in London because it something Howard and Maria had deemed necessary and _because they love you so much, Tony, they wouldn’t trust your safety with anyone else other than Captain America himself._ His vocal start to contract, preparing itself to also say that _until they’re back, until they return from their business meetings and trainings, I will be by your side for as long as you need me, because I will never leave your side, I will protect you._

The lie is ready, everything that Steve keeps like a winning card. It is a lie that he reminds himself of constantly each night he tucks Tony into bed after reading him a book, it is a lie he repeats like a mantra at the back of his mind when he watches Tony attempt to distract himself with his Lego and cartoons and his piano practice.

Steve knows he is more than _ready_ to lie, whatever it takes to keep Tony’s innocence and prevent him from unnecessary grief.

But what comes out instead is, “No, Tony. They’re not coming back.”

Watching Tony’s eyes go wide and the tears start to trickle down his cheeks, large and crystal clear as long lashes bat and blink several times, repeatedly, once, twice, thrice –oh god, it _hurts_. It hurts more than Steve is ever willing to admit. Watching Tony _stare_ at him like the words that had left his mouth is a _lie_ burns and scorches something deep in Steve’s chest that he cannot help the slow and shaky intake of breath, that watching Tony come apart in his hands, small and helpless and _trembling_ , oh god, he’s so _small_ , _he doesn’t deserve this,_ makes Steve’s lips part in a shaky breath that tastes too much like betrayal. And isn’t it just funny that being honest _hurts_. There is no whisper of a lie in Steve’s answer, not a shred of it, and the way Tony is looking at him, like his heart had been ripped out of his chest, there is so much about that very moment and that very same expression on Tony’s little face that takes Steve back years ago, in the damp and cold military base in Siberia, when Steve had also spoken the truth – no, he had _finally_ spoken the truth and Tony had looked at him the same way, just like he is right now, except his eyes had been dry then.

(Because maybe, at that point, Tony had no more tears to shed because he had shed it all those years ago.)

Steve watches as Tony scrambles to gather his thoughts, breath coming out faster and faster, hands limp on his sides and the only thing probably holding him up are Steve’s own hands.

“But _why_?” Tony chokes out, lips trembling just as much as his syllables and his voice.

“Because they’re no longer with us, Tony.” Steve says and it feels a little like admitting true defeat. The words shudder out of him, just as he exhales, “Some very bad people made it their mission to ensure that they got hurt. They’re dead, buddy.”

Tony blinks again and looks so very confused. “But you’re dad’s friend! And dad loves you! He worked very hard to find you! Why didn’t you stop the bad people?”

(Why didn’t you Steve? Why. Didn’t. You.)

“I-“ Steve feels his throat swell to the size of a fist and he can’t bear to look at Tony in the eyes. “I couldn’t.”

“But – but _you’re_ Captain America! Why didn’t you help my dad? And my mama? And my Jarvis?”

The words feels like a slap to the face and Steve’s gaze jerks right back up at that, as he is forced to watch the tears roll down Tony’s face while his own eyes _burn_ because the world sees Captain America as the Super Soldier, the man with a plan, the man who can carry the weight of _anything_ , protector of the masses, and the symbol of _hope_. But here, in front of Tony, you’re not exactly all _that_ , are you? You _can’t_ be all that. No matter how much you wish now that you could be all that for this boy right here, in front of you, this boy who’s breath isn’t even coming out anymore, this boy whose lips are trembling with the force of the mounting grief and realization that he is _never_ going to see his parents again, that his dad, who should have been around him more, had been out in oceans of the sea looking for you and you, the so called legend couldn’t even help him?

“I – I couldn’t.” The words feel like lead, the admission like a hot iron rod searing into his throat. “ _I couldn’t_.”

“But you’re the strongest man in the world!” Tony says, voice pitch high, his anguish _raw_.

Shame is the first thing that Steve feels which is quickly replaced by regret when he shakes his head, apologetic, so, so apologetic, “I’m _not_ , Tony. I _wish_ I was. But I’m not.”

There is relief in the admission but it is quickly replaced by grief within the space of a heartbeat as Steve watches Tony comes apart like shattering glass, crying in earnest.

“So I won’t see them anymore?” Tony _hiccups_ the words out.

And Steve wishes right then and there that he can take it all back, that he can turn back time and _lie_ instead because Tony is _shaking_ and he looks so _scared_ and so inconceivably alone.

“No, Tony.” Steve’s voice is not steady, his throat tight and scratchy like had swallowed sand.

“ _Forever_?” Tony asks again, and there is almost hope there, like he’s begging Steve to lie, begging him to tell him that his mama and his dad and his Jarvis are just around the corner and is held up somewhere, that’s all.

It is one of the hardest things Steve had to ensure. He _cannot_ answer and when no words leave Steve’s mouth, Tony dissolves into grief, just as Steve drowns in heartfelt regret as he wraps his arms around Tony and holds him close, hoping that by holding him like this, by shielding him from the horrid reality that surrounds him, he can keep the pieces from collapsing, prevent Tony from collapsing further in and on himself. He hopes, as his arms tighten around Tony and he presses his lips to the crown of his head, and his hands smooth down a small shoulder blade, that he can stop the quakes of loss, that he can calm him down and by god, does Steve hope he can, and keeps trying even when the tears do not stop and cries does not quieten down.

Steve knows that there is nothing he could have done during that time, he had been under the ice. Steve knows that he had no control over Howard’s decision to put Captain America above the emotional needs of his family. Steve also knows that had he been around, he would have done _everything_ to ensure the safety of Howard’s family, he would have protected Tony.

But he hadn’t been around. And the crux of the matter is that Steve knows that lying or eliminating parts of the truth would have prevented all this unnecessary grief. Steve knows he had been perfectly capable of lying to begin with.

Except he didn’t want to.

Not when Tony had looked up at him with so much honesty, with lack of fear, not when Tony had willingly taken his hand and god, for one brief moment it feels like Tony had forgiven him for the lies and his cowardice to face the real truth, and god, Tony I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I’m sorry I couldn’t lie, I’m sorry I’m making you cry now but I can’t lie to you, I can’t hide the truth from you and I won’t, even if you don’t understand, even if you _can’t_ understand because it’s too much for you comprehend, I want you to know that I would never compromise your trust in me again, I will never take that risk anymore, I will not gamble with it because I should have been there, I should have done better, I should have tried harder to protect you even if it had meant breaking your heart with the truth.

Steve closes his eyes and swallows down the grief himself, one hand splaying over the back of Tony’s head as he buries his face into the boy’s shoulder, trying to keep him steady because god knows he doesn’t think he can keep his own shit together.

Not like this.

\--

Steve is sitting in the living room staring at the switched off television screen with Tony asleep in his arms. Tony had cried for hours until he had exhausted himself and had fallen asleep against the crook of Steve’s neck. Sometime during the entire ordeal, Steve had picked Tony up off the kitchen floor and held him like one would with a crying infant. Steve had expected Tony to want nothing to do with him, to push him away, to hit him and continue to blame him for the loss of his parents and caretaker. Instead, Tony had simply clung to him and wept until he had nothing left.

It had numbed Steve to a point that he doesn’t realize that dawn had crept over the horizon.

It is Rhodey’s figure by the door and the soft tap of his fingers against the wooden doorframe that snaps Steve out of his reverie. The concerned expression on Rhodey’s features doesn’t escape Steve. Steve careful measures his movements as he shifts and stands from the sofa, careful not to jostle Tony so as not to disturb his much needed sleep. Steve is gentle as he sets Tony down on the sofa and covers him with a blanket before he quietly tiptoes out of the room and joins Rhodey in the study.

“Is he okay?” Rhodey asks, before the door even clicks shut completely.

“He knows.” Steve answers, his pounding migraine suddenly making itself aware. Steve isn’t sure how long he had sat in the same spot, unmoving since the previous night, wallowing in his lack of ability to do anything about things he had no control over.

“Knows _what,_ exactly?” Rhodey’s eyebrows are high up on his forehead, tension lining his shoulder

“He knows that Maria, Howard and Jarvis are dead.” Steve says, not realizing how he is pacing the room.

“Steve –“

“I was not going to lie to him!” Steve _snaps_. “I _will not_.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Rhodey grits out. “Really, Steve –“

“I _couldn’t do it!_ ” Steve bites out, slamming his fists against the table. “Goddamnit, Rhodey, _I couldn’t!_ I thought I was ready to lie to him again, but you know what, lying to him and pretending that everything is okay isn’t going to change the fact that his parents or Jarvis aren’t coming back! And Tony – Jesus Christ – Tony is a smart kid! He is so, so _goddamn smart!_ He _knew_ something was off! He hasn’t seen his parents in almost eight weeks, and no matter what arrangements Maria and Howard may have had, it will never explain why _Jarvis_ isn’t even around! He doesn’t even – he – the kid stopped eating! He stopped going out, he stopped _talking all together!_ He doesn’t even think it’s wrong that his parents and caretaker had been gone for _three weeks_ and he had only started showing concerns two weeks ago! You do the goddamn math! He doesn’t think it’s wrong to walk into a house he doesn’t recognize, or why he can’t find his toys or belongings or why his father’s study looks different! He doesn’t know why he cannot access his room, or why the lawn looks different –“

“Where do you get off, man?” Rhodey asks, incredulous.

“What?” Steve blinks, taken aback, the rawness in his voice quaking to a full halt as he blinks again and again and tries to ground himself from the anger and frustration and the bitterness and the _helplessness_.

“You spend what, six weeks with a toddler version of Tony and you turn into _this?_ “

And somehow, that _angers_ Steve. “Have you not heard a word I said?”

“He’s a _Stark!”_ Rhodey _snaps_ , voice loud like a crack of a whip, syllables bouncing off the wall like the drop of guillotine blade. It is the punch to the face that Steve needs. “And being _born_ a Stark, a noble with a legacy of that magnitude does not give you a lot of room to be a normal kid, not when your parents are Maria and Howard _Stark_. What the _fuck_ were you expecting Tony to be? A fucking happy camper as a kid? _Have you_ _met him in person_? And even if it wasn’t an ideal childhood, Tony loved his parents and I’ve known him for decades and believe me when I tell you that not _once_ , not even at his _lowest_ or his most _drunken state_ did Tony ever _admit_ or _hinted_ that he had a bad childhood. No matter what their shortcomings were, _never_ has Tony said that he had _bad parents_. Not once.”

“He’s just a kid, Rhodey.”

“And you’re just a _man_.” Rhodey says and _sighs_ , as he moves to lower himself on one of the chairs. “I know what you’re doing.” Rhodey shakes his head.

“What the fuck am I doing, Rhodey!” Steve bites back, hands spreading open and coming down sharply against his legs in an exasperated and almost defeated gesture. “Please tell me!”

“You can’t fix his past! You can’t fix anything!” Rhodey bites back, fists hard and knuckles white against the armrest of the chair. “Steve, people have come and tried to _fix Tony Stark_. There is _nothing_ to fix! Because there is _nothing_ wrong with him!”

“Rhodey –“

“Making up for your mistakes _now_ by being _honest_ , by listening to him, by not betraying his trust, by making the choice and taking the chance to stand on _his side_ is not going to change a damn thing, Steve. It’s _too late_. It may bring you some insight, it may make you feel better, and that’s good, I hope it does, but it’s not going to change _anything_.” Rhodey says and stands up. “Steve, it’s _too late._ Do you _understand_ this? And this is _not_ an accusation, I am done pointing fingers and blaming you or anyone else for their choices, hell, Tony had moved past it. He _chose to_.”

“But at what _price_!” Steve grounds out.

“It’s his _choice_.”

“I never understood how and why you could just stand idle as Tony chooses to be so self destructive –“ Rhodey’s laugh is loud and hollow, like Steve’s words are genuinely _hilarious_.

It is enough to make Steve’s blood boil and the reaction is so cathartic that he is tempted to plant a fist in the center of Rhodey’s face. He knows his temper is roaring high like a blazing flame, he knows that what he feels _now_ cannot be solely blamed on Tony crying for hours and drowning in his loss and grief, he knows that it goes beyond that.

(The truth is, you know it had all started in Leipzig, the chip in the fine glass. That your anger from then had snowballed down a hill so large and it is still rolling. Because you had bottled everything, watched Tony figuratively almost physically die before your eyes and you had no control over it. It’s your _guilt_ that’s making you lose your shit. And maybe it’s high time you blow the emotional steam out, maybe it’s high time you actually _erupted_ because god knows how Sam has been trying to get you to _say_ everything you had just thrown at Rhodey’s face.)

Steve is about to bite back something to shut Rhodey up, when he stiffens because he hears Tony from down the hall. He doesn’t even wait as he turns quickly, with Rhodey hot on his heels as he crosses the distance between the study and couch he had tucked Tony into, only to find Tony sitting up and curled against his stomach and crying.

“Tony?” Steve is kneeling beside him and pushing his hair off his face, carefully sitting him up and lifting his shirt to see if there is anything wrong. “Buddy, what’s wrong?”

“My tummy hurts, Steve.” Tony says, voice pinched and losing color from his face.

“Okay, okay, that’s okay, we’re gonna get you to a doctor – “ Steve cuts short when he feels the tremble in Tony’s spine. “He’s going to throw up – “

Rhodey shoves a clear crystal decorative piece under Tony’s chin, and Steve barely has but a second before Tony starts to retch out his dinner viciously. Steve realizes what Rhodey had done and looks up at him alarmingly because there is nothing remotely inexpensive about the crystal piece.

Rhodey _scowls_ at him in return. “Don’t – _don’t_ say a damn thing!”

“What if it’s his _mom’s?_ ”

“Steve, shut the fuck up, I’ll wash it later, he won’t even notice – dear god.” Rhodey _breathes_ out watching as Tony vomit his dinner and bile and stomach acid, crying as he does so.

“Rhodey, he’s burning up.” Steve says, tone calm had it not been for the hysteria he is starting to feel somewhere deep in his gut.

“What the fuck did you feed him!” Rhodey _snaps._

“Hey! There was nothing fucking wrong with my lasagna!”

“I’m calling Banner. And Strange! We need to get his fever down. I’ll get the ice.”

It is a flurry of movements after that, between Steve grabbing Tony and getting him into the bathroom and pressing a damp towel against the back of his neck as Tony trembles with each heave. The crystal piece ends up somewhere on counter as Steve maneuvers Tony onto the toilet seat where he continues to empty his stomach. Steve can hear Rhodey barking on the phone as he calls Bruce to get his ass into the manor and then tries to get a hold of Strange. And for a moment, the heaving stops and Steve thinks that the worst of it is done. But when when he carefully pull’s Tony’s head back to tell him it’s okay, it is the sight of

Tony _heaves again_ , before he starts to tremble and shake and _cry_. Garbled words leave his mouth and for the brief moment the heaving stop, Rhodey kneels on the floor and quickly wipes away the mess around Tony’s face. And that is when they both watch as Tony’s eyes roll back until only the whites are exposed and then it happens, slowly, but gradually, and Steve almost misses how Tony’s hair starts to grow longer, or how his cheekbones start to sharpen.

Steve doesn’t realize how he’s _shouting_ for Rhodey’s name, helpless as Tony starts to physically morph to something older, limbs elongating and innocence shifting to something more matured, but not quite. There is no blinding light here, no swirls of magical fairy dust as Tony starts to age at a rapid rate and there is nothing – absolutely _nothing_ – in the world that can prepare Steve, or Rhodey who now stands transfixed at the door _staring_ wide eyed, for what is happening before their eyes.

It is all over in a matter of the most terrifying four minutes of Steve and Rhodey’s life because the almost-five year old boy is gone and replaced by what looks like the bare and naked form of  prepubescent boy, Tony’s t-shirt and shorts lying in tatters all over the bathroom floor.

Steve watches as his own shaking hand comes to rest on Tony’s head, and he is not sure if he should be even more concerned that the fever still remains or the fact the metamorphosis had finally come to a halt.

Tony remains unmoving, passed out and slumped lifelessly against Steve.

Just as both Rhodey and Steve stare at each other, hoping that the other person had words for a moment like this.  
  
__

  
“Honestly, dude,” Sam says, as they stand around the kitchen island, nursing beer bottles. “I am gonna go ahead and say it. But you have got to have the _worst luck_. Both ya’ll.”

Steve and Rhodey say _nothing_ , even as Sam laughs humorlessly.  

“You can say that again.” Bucky reiterates with a slight huffing exhale, partially amused, partially pitying.

Bucky and Sam had shown up around lunchtime with a large box tucked under Sam’s arm. Steve recalls how Sam had promised Tony to get him the Star Wars Deathstar Lego set the next time he pops by and Steve also recalls how Tony had been quite excited at the idea of brand new Lego set, albeit looking confused about what a Deathstar really is. Steve had watched how Sam had started narrating the entire Star Wars story to Tony all throughout dinner and bed time weeks ago. Bucky himself had not come empty handed either, because he had the Lego set for BB8 and R2D2 too, who Tony, as to be expected from a kid of almost-five, had taken a keen liking to after he had sat and watched the entire series with Steve.

So Steve _can_ understand why _they_ are present.

He will not even question Bruce’s presence because there is no harm in having a doctor in the house, especially after the slight panic he and Rhodey had that morning.

But what Steve cannot understand is the peanut gallery that is Clint and Strange, who are both sitting rather comfortably in one of the bar stools, munching a large bag of Tony’s favorite chips, with no consideration for decorum or manners. Strange had already conducted his business and Clint had decided to pop by after hearing the entire fiasco from Natasha and Scott. Now Steve is willing to overlook Clint’s unnecessary presence, seeing as he had not shown up with a Lego set like Bucky and Sam. He can dismiss Clint’s presence as moral support and at the end of the day, Clint is a friend. Strange’s presence, however, no matter how useful, is something that had set Steve on edge. While he is grateful and appreciative of Strange’s  input and help on Tony’s current state along with his (albeit currently limited) knowledge of _magic_ , he cannot help but feel unbelievably – and hilariously and unreasonably – ill at ease around him. Strange’s gaze had followed him through the course of the day, had watched him tuck and care for Tony’s unconscious figure and when pockets of conversation had risen, Strange’s eyes had always been on _him_.

Steve doesn’t understand what Strange’s beef is.

At first he had thought that maybe there is a fleck of vomit somewhere on his clothes, and after Steve had cleaned up and the staring didn’t abate, Steve had started to wonder if maybe there is something in the way he dresses that seems inappropriate. The way Strange’s eyes followed his movements is starting – and for no reason Steve can even begin to comprehend at this point – to get on his nerves.

And just like that, Steve watches as strange crumples the empty large bag of chips and reaches forward to open a second one.

Steve knows he is tired.

But it almost feels personal.

“You know,” Steve says, hands coming to his hips. “I really think you should both stop eating Tony’s favorite snack.” Steve is rewarded by silence that is only filled with Clint and Strange’s continuous chewing of the crispy snack. “He may not be himself right now, but what if he wakes up and wants chips?”

“I’d share with Tony anytime.” Clint says, around a mouthful. “I’ll go buy some, too.”

“It is a rather large bag.” Strange chimes, seemingly unperturbed by how unamused Steve currently is. “Although that notion may seem rather unlikely considering that Tony has just gone through a very rapid growth and aging process. I believe you should be more concerned how you will be explaining all _this_ ,” Strange gestures with a hand, at everyone who is gathered in the kitchen, “rather than why there is a seemingly lack of… ketchup flavored Lays.”

“And you’ve been quite helpful with that. What with you not really knowing what’s going on. You said just as much.”

“Ketchup flavored Lays, though…” Strange says, with a cock of his eyebrow and a whisper of an amused smile that makes Steve step forward to give him a response that it’s not about the chips.

Except Steve finds himself being forced to carry sealed Lego box as Bucky pats him on the back. “Let’s go put this in Tony’s room, okay, buddy? Come on.”

Steve leaves the room but not without noticing Sam looking at him with his eyebrows high up on his forehead and Rhodey blinking a few times in his direction. Steve also doesn’t miss Clint’s impeccable pokerface. It is only when he reaches the top of the staircase does he notice the look Bucky is giving him.

“What?” Steve _almost_ snaps.

“Nothing.” Bucky says and stops when Steve grabs him by the arm in the middle of the hallway.

“No. _What_ is it?” Steve insists.

“Relax, Steve.” Bucky says, giving a bit of a shrug. “You’re really worked up about this.” Steve sighs and drops himself down on one of the chaise in the hallway. “Bruce says that Strange thinks that after what happened today, Tony should be back to his normal timeline at some point.”

“Well, yeah, but… I dunno, Buck.” Steve ducks his head and rubs the back of his skull with his palm. “I dunno how any of this would affect Tony. Would he remember anything, will _all_ this alter his current present, his memories.” There is a bitter taste lingering at the back of Steve’s throat at that. “Not like he needed any help in that department.”

“Steve…”

“I know, I know.” Steve gets up. “It was his decision.”

“We’re all worried. I may not know him the way you all do, but he’s helped me in a lot of ways, so I’m worried to. But, Stevie, you need to really just relax and take it a day at a time. Rhodey is and he’s been under a lot of pressure. Count your stars that he’s on your end of the ballpark and he’s even allowing this arrangement, in the first place.”

“You don’t understand. Last night - Buck, he – I _had_ to tell him.” Steve says, holding his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “I had to tell him the truth about his parents and you should – if you could only see how he looked like, what he said, and – Jesus, Buck, he wanted to know _why_ I didn’t help Howard. I can’t lie to him, he deserves better, but how the hell do I explain that to a _kid_? Or all this, _any_ of _this_?”

Bucky doesn’t get the chance to answer because the sound of the door knob turning cuts through the silent hallway, just as both their heads whip towards the direction of Tony’s room. Steve finds himself unable to breathe because he watches with something that feels little like a panic, a little like nervousness and a whole lot of uncertainty start to ball up somewhere in the pit of his stomach as Tony carefully emerges from the hallway and catches sight of Steve. Steve watches as Tony’s face start to fall from its confused state and something like white hot anger crosses his features. Steve feels himself take a slight step back as Tony walks over to him until he is standing with mere centimeters between them, studying him, eyeing him up and down and _glaring_ into his eyes, unashamed, unperturbed of their size difference and not a care in the world that he had to crane his neck all the way up to meet Steve’s gaze.

Steve had expected many things.

But being punched and hit and screamed at loudly by Tony Stark with all his might had _not_ been one them.

(The funny thing is, you feel that you _truly_ deserve it.)

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhmmmmmmm.
> 
> Well. Yeah. I dunno?
> 
> I had to rewrite this chapter SO MANY TIMES good lord, I've reached a point where I just want it over and done with. 
> 
> I have concluded that this story will probably be mostly in Steve's perspective. I can also easily say that my confidence in this story is shaky. I feel the fault is trying to condense and pack as much as I can of what Steve Rogers had felt all those years into two chapters (which is unfair). But that aside, I know I said it would be lighter but. Well. No. I dunno, I don't think so?
> 
> Advanced happy holidays to all, of course. I will try to cough up the next chapter faster this time around.
> 
> Thank you for expressing interest in this ~~rather shaky and currently messed up~~ story. 
> 
> I am hoping that some of the concerns that were voiced in the comments for the previous chapter was somehow addressed in this chapter. The rest should unfold as we move forward.


	3. (´。＿。｀)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am my own beta. I may have missed some typos/mistakes/blabla. This is an evergreen story and I am continuously re-reading and editing typos as I go. Tags to be edited/added as i go along and cough up chapters.

(´ 。＿。｀ )   
  


Bucky’s hand is on Steve’s shoulder when Steve suddenly bolts up from his bed with a gasp, a hand coming up to clamp against his own mouth in a subconscious gesture to remain  _ silent.  _ The grip on Steve’s shoulder is firm, grounding; It takes ten seconds for Steve to suck in a slow breath and exhale shakily, and another three seconds for Steve’s gaze to meet Bucky’s, wide with his pupils dilated to its maximum. There is a wide look in Steve’s gaze that Bucky recognizes, the kind that is trying to pick the differences between dreams and reality, when you try to make sense of what your brain has cooked up, who is who and which one do you choose to believe is  _ real _ .

Steve gives a bit of a half nod and Bucky takes that as a silent confirmation that he’s okay. 

And just like the past four days, Bucky watches Steve get up from the guest bed and pull out a clean shirt from his duffel bag. Steve changes, grabs his running shoes and steps out of the room without another word. And here Bucky thought  _ he _ had problems.

He wants to say that it is to be expected, but Bucky knows that Steve takes things to heart. Bucky himself is unable to shake out the words Tony had thrown at Steve’s face, with each pound of his fist until his voice had gone  _ raw _ from the anger and the screams, and the outright  _ hate _ .

_ I hate you, I wish you never existed! I wish you were never part of this family! I hate you! I hope you die! _

The tension in the manor had reached new levels since that night, when everyone had heard the words clearly, had seen how Tony had struggled against Bucky’s hold when he pulled him away from the beating he had subjected Steve to, a beating that had done nothing to Steve, not physically anyway. Bucky had to bodily pick up Tony and put distance, leaving Steve standing there with a heartbroken face and guilt that might as well had been invisible tears. Bucky doesn’t remember ever seeing that expression on Steve except once, a long time ago, when Sarah had passed away after suffering for a very long time. Tony’s rage and hate had been so spiteful that even after Bucky had gotten them into the study, away from Steve’s visible form, Tony had _screamed_ and _cried_ and continued to yell the words out - _IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou_ \- and banging his fists against the ground. Tony had been putting a lot of power behind each pound of his fist that Bucky had grabbed him by the arms and held him tight. Tony had let out a loud muffled cry against Bucky’s t-shirt until all the anger had left nothing but bitterness. Bucky had felt so out of place holding the skinny frame against him as Tony cried and _cried_ until he had eventually quietened and calmed down, long enough for Bucky to sit him on the couch and stare blankly at the stretch of the night sky illuminating the manicured lawn.

Rhodey had come in then, along with Banner and both had knelt in front of Tony and introduced themselves. Tony had taken one look at them, eyes red rimmed and nose and ears still blazing hot from the explosive rage earlier, and then  _ glared _ at Bucky.

And when Bucky introduced himself as well, he remembers seeing how all the cogs and wheels in Tony’s head had pieced that information together and how quick Tony had been in getting to his feet and putting distance between them. 

“You’re supposed to be dead!”

Bucky remembers feeling a bemused jaded cynicism in that very moment that he hadn’t been able to keep the amused snort from coming out, much to Bruce’s and Rhodey’s disapproving looks. “But I’m not.” 

“That is not possible! Dad said you were dead! The  _ Commandos _ are  _ dead! _ You must be some kind of  _ dead-freak _ !”

(If you only  _ knew _ .)

“The bad guys got to me.” Buck had shrugged. “ _ Hydra _ got to me. And used me.” Bucky had pulled out the glove on his metal arm, not missing the glint of curiosity briefly flashing in Tony’s gaze as he tugs the hoodie he had on off, exposing the full arm. Tony had taken another step back then, and Bucky cannot say he can blame the boy for fearing the sight of the arm; he had just not expected the reaction to actually get under his skin, however minutely. “But I’m better.”

“ _ Hydra scum!” _

(You’re not wrong there, kid. I agree.)

“You have every right to not believe me.” Buck had said, holding both hands up in a surrendering gesture. “But Steve and I, along with everyone in this house are the best people you got to ensure your safety. You should probably listen to what these guys have to say.”

And that had been that.

Tony had made himself scarce, spending days on end locked up in one of the drawing rooms, taking comfort in Friday’s holographic presence. He eats his meals alone, he doesn’t engage in conversation nor does he make eye contact, except with Bruce.

Out of all four presences in the house, between Sam, Steve, Bucky and Bruce, the only person Tony seems to be interested in holding any one-liner conversation with is Bruce. He had disregarded Rhodey completely from the first night; from the very moment Rhodey had told him that he is associated with the United States Military. And in the same night, Tony had told Rhodey to his face that he is on private property and that he should take Captain Shit and Sergeant Freak-Ass with him or Tony will forcibly exercise his rights to privacy. It had been an interesting exchange because Bucky had heard every single word from beyond the door, had watched Sam and Clint stifle amused  _ chuckles _ at the new names, and had given Rhodey the gold medal for taking control and putting Tony in his place, reminding him that it is the military and the United Nations that had  _ sanctioned _ this “intrusion” thereby nullifying an under-aged boy’s claims.

Bucky had to give Tony points for trying, though. His behavior may have been that of a spoiled, center of attention, privileged rich brat, but Sam had been very clear in pointing out that despite all that, he had listened to Rhodey, had shut his mouth when a very vague and very brief explanation that he is currently under house arrest for his safety because his parents had been threatened by a terrorist group in Switzerland, that they’re placing a team of counter-terrorist specialist to ensure that no harm gets to Tony and to prevent anything from escalating. Tony had  _ cooperated _ and much like his almost-five year old self, he took the entire explanation with a grain of salt and had said nothing – Bucky had to wonder if such things had been a frequent occurrence in Tony’s life.

The explanation had sounded  _ perfect _ and almost fools proof. Yet despite all that, Tony’ access to information has also been limited; if Rhodey hadn’t been given certain privileges to some of Tony’s security protocols, keeping Tony in a bubble  _ now _ would have likely been impossible. Rhodey had managed to get Friday to filter certain subjects that relates to the deaths of the Starks, Iron Man, Stark Industries, the Accords and of course, Tony Stark himself. 

Then again, Bucky thinks that ninety-six hours is far too early to decide that the coast is clear. 

So like the past three days and a half, Bucky joins Bruce and Sam in the kitchen, where it is Sam’s voluntary-turn to fix breakfast. Bruce had gone up to leave Tony a plate and had returned to nurse a cup of coffee and read the newspaper. They sit in silence as Sam flips a whole lot of pancakes to feed two Super Soldiers and keeps the hash browns coming. Clint joins them a good hour earlier, with two armful of groceries and a sweaty Steve from his morning run in tow. Breakfast continues with mild chatter and brief discussion of possible upcoming assignments. Bucky leaves Clint and Sam to fill the space in between with their chatter, his gaze on Steve who, like Bucky had guessed he would, had remained neutral throughout the course of breakfast after a quick change. Steve would nod, agree or disagree, maybe offer a thought or two, but mostly he had kept to himself just like Bruce currently is with reading the newspaper. 

Clint is in the middle of volunteering dinner duty when Bucky catches Steve’s gaze, just as his senses picks up hesitant footsteps outside the kitchen doorway. They both hear it first and Clint, Bruce and Sam must have caught something from the corner of their eyes because it is Sam who breaks the ice.

“Friday?” He calls out, meeting everyone’s gaze, just as Tony hesitantly steps into the kitchen, holding his plate. “Oh hey, little man.”

“My name is  _ Anthony _ .” Tony responds.

“Pshhh, well aren’t you an uptight little thing.” Sam says, with humor and a smile. “I’m just messing with you, we’re cool right?”

Tony doesn’t  _ deem _ Sam with a response and instead gives the entire group his back as he stiffly walks by the island towards the sink where he places his plate into it, gaze wandering over to the stack of blueberry pancakes and still steaming pile of freshly fried hash browns and bacon. Bucky knows that all eyes are on Tony, even when no one pauses in their eating, drinking and turning a newspaper page. Bucky can see how Tony’s shoulder are lined with tension, how focus is on the extra food, like he is debating if he should go for seconds or just ignore it all together. Bucky wants to tell him that it’s all his, but Clint’s chair scrapes rather sharply against floor, an action that Bucky knows is done on purpose as he casually strolls over to where Tony is staring at the food and starts to help himself to some bacon. It is the first time that Tony spends more than a full minute in anyone else’s presence other than Bruce because Tony looks like he’s turning a little green around the edges when Clint reaches for the maple syrup and starts pouring it over his bacon. Bucky watches with mounting amusement, how for the first time, this actually gauges a reaction out of Tony because Tony’s face goes from shock to incredulous peppered with disgust as he continues to look at Clint’s plate like he is doing something horribly gross - not that Bucky can fault Tony at this point; maple syrup and bacon isn’t something he enjoys, either.

Clint cocks an eyebrow and shoves a mouthful of maple syrup coated bacon into his mouth, chewing slowly before asking, “What are you looking at? Got a problem?”

“That’s _ disgusting _ .” 

“It’s fucking incredible, that’s what it is.” Clint says, and Bucky’s hand is on Steve, to silence him before he can say something about the language. “Okay, okay, you’re judging. That’s fine. I get it. Whatever. Let me tell you something; you know when I first saw this shit? I had the exact same sour expression. Fucking gross, I thought.” Tony’s eyebrow go up. “I was in Canada, sometime during the earlier days of my career, undercover shit in New Brunswick, freezing ass winter. You ever been to Canada?”

“Just Toronto. It’s actually kinda’ gross. I didn’t like it.” Tony says, shrugging.

“Compared to New York, maybe. Anyway, we were stuck in this warehouse for days because we had to lay low, and Jesus Christ, it was  _ cold _ as  _ fuck _ !” Bucky’s grip  _ tightens _ on Steve’s arm and he tries not to smile even if Sam is failing because Steve’s face is almost  _ priceless _ . “And you can only live off ration bars for so long. Turns out, warehouse was a holding facility for?”

“Bacon and maple syrup.” Tony answers in a deadpan tone.

“Ding, ding, bingo! You’d think I’d be put off by it.” Clint shrugs and takes another mouthful. “And I thought was; didn’t think I could stand the smell of bacon or maple syrup for a while. And we had to get creative in “cooking” that shit, too. But after that assignment and my partner and I were about to go our separate ways, just for kicks, we ended up in a little place called  _ La Parlementaire _ in Quebec City. Double-dog-dared each other to eat bacon and maple syrup. And I never fucking  _ regretted  _ it. Been having it ever since, when the opportunity arises of course, thank you, Sam.” Clint turns to look at Sam who simply raises his coffee cup and takes a sip like he’s not remotely interested in the conversation. “Wanna try?” 

“No!” 

“Why? What are you, chicken-shit?” Clint asks, making a bit of an exaggerated face. “Come on, don’t be such a killjoy, here.” 

Bucky watches as Steve inhales a little sharply, breath catching somewhere in his throat when Tony’s lips twitches to one side and he reaches over for a large piece of bacon dripping in maple syrup and shoves it into his mouth, making a bit of a mess that he manages to get under control with a paper towel from the dispenser. Tony had taken a piece so big that his cheeks are puffed up to its fullest capacity, eyes scrunched and redness creeping up to his neck and ears, likely from embarrassment, because Tony’s face also simultaneously dissolves to an outright scowl as he works his mouth around the bacon and syrup, covering his mouth with the napkin in what looks like a pitiful attempt at proper etiquette. Clint is grinning from ear to ear, looking like a goddamn idiot, nodding slowly.

“It’s different.” Tony says, wiping his mouth clean and then a shrug, meeting Clint’s gaze head on and punctuating his words with a dismissive shrug. 

It is all Tony says before he turns around and leaves the kitchen all together, footsteps quick and almost like he’s running away. Clint shouts out a ‘you’re welcome’ which moments later is punctuated by a loud echoing slam of a door.

“Shield mission?” Steve asks. 

“Yup.” Clint answers, joining them all once more around the island. 

“Sooooooo, who here thinks that Clint having dad-experience is the main reason that he managed to get a decent enough reaction from  _ Anthony? _ ” A beat goes by. “Not counting Bruce, of course. Sorry, Bruce.”

Bruce simply waves a hand as he turns the page of his newspaper.

“That might be it.” Bucky shrugs; he’s not surprised. “Made eye contact, too.”

“Which is a good thing.” Sam says, nodding. “Hey, at least he’s not kicking and screaming and trying to take Captain Shit’s head off, right?” 

“You are all welcome.” Clint says around a mouthful of pancakes with a dip of his head.

“Was the language really necessary, though?” Steve asks. Clint lets out an exasperated ‘oh come on’ just as Sam and Bucky exchange a high five. “I just think we should be a little more sensitive and polite around a ten year old.” 

“Wait, did he actually confirm that he is ten?” Bruce asks, setting the newspaper down.

“No, it’s a guess.” Steve says, eyes falling back to his plate. “Bruce, has he said anything to you? Anything that can give us an idea of his timeline?”

“Not a word.” Bruce shakes his head. “He’s only ever interested in discussing physics with me. And a bit of chemistry. I kinda’ didn’t want to push my luck a little too much and risk him not responding to anything  _ at all _ .” 

“He’s a smart kid.” Steve says, jawline tightening. “Sooner or later, our stories, our excuses are not going to be good enough. It would help to know a few things to keep the ball rolling.”

The silence around the table is thick and agreeing. 

Clint and Sam starts to brainstorm excuses, coming up with combinations and reasoning, scenarios that may come up. Bruce puts in his two cents too while Steve carries on with his breakfast and listens closely.

Bucky remains mute throughout this exchange, consciously opts to be a quiet observer as opposed to being an active participant; it is something that would have made him out of character back in the day. Back then, it is Bucky who is the smooth talker, the one with the sense of humor, the one that had all the ladies tittering around him and the men roaring in passionate discussion or hysterical laughter. Back then, being invisible had been difficult.

Now, Bucky takes comfort in being invisible.

And he can tell, by the tension that starts lining Steve’s jaw and shoulders, that Steve isn’t  into the conversation taking place, that his mind is mostly on the boy upstairs who is probably flicking through virtual e-books that Friday is giving him access to; it’s all Tony does. Bucky remembers Bruce two nights ago, how he had bullshitted his way into explaining that Friday is a new internet system that Howard had been currently developing. Tony had seemed rather fascinated with it, which everyone agrees to be a good thing. This is honestly the first time Steve is even expressing any thought towards maintaining Tony’s safety bubble. 

Bucky chalks it all up to Steve taking it a little too personally, which may have been a subconscious reaction. He thinks that Steve walking on eggshells  _ now _ is due to the reaction he had gotten from the almost-five Tony combined with the vicious greeting of this probably-ten Tony.

(Then again, haven't you noticed how over the years, anything related to Tony Stark is taken rather personally by Steve? It seems like Tony is one of the very few who can get a reaction out of Steve quicker than you had been able to back then.)

“Let me try and talk to him.” Bucky says, his words cutting through the chatter like a hot knife as he stands up to put his plate away. “Key is to not talk to him like a kid, right Clint?” 

“Safest bet.” Clint shrugs.

“I’ll do it.” Bucky says, and heads to the cabinet to pull out a glass, pouring a generous amount of orange juice. Steve had mentioned, during the brief moments when Bucky had asked him how almost-five Tony was doing, that Tony  _ loves _ orange juice. Steve had sounded quite happy then, talking about the small things Tony enjoyed. 

“Buck, you sure?” Steve asks.

“He was not very friendly, remember?” Bruce points out, and Bucky knows that he is referring to Tony calling him Hydra Scum.

“It’s worth a shot. Friday can keep you in the loop, right, Friday?” Bucky picks up the glass of orange juice and meets Steve’s gaze, blue irises brimming with gratitude.

“Of course.” Friday responds. 

Bucky thinks this may be the stupidest idea he has ever had in a long time.

\--

_ This is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had _ , Bucky tells himself as he stands there by the open door with Tony  _ glaring _ up at him.

“We need to talk.” Bucky says, voice even and firm, betraying nothing of how he thinks he is definitely not the right man for this and then, within the same line of thought, he asks himself,  _ then why the hell did you fucking volunteer in the first place? _ He can already see the tendons in Tony’s bony wrists shifting and protruding from how hard Tony is gripping the door. 

“So talk.” Tony says, shifting the weight of his body to his other leg. 

Bucky straightens his back and steps into the room, using his full height and size and following Clint’s lead in not tiptoeing around Tony or treating him like a delicate child. He sits on one of the chairs and places Tony’s juice on the table. He notes how there are numerous open books on the floor, and holographic projections on Java and C++ for Dummies. Bucky also notices how Tony had a pencil and open writing pad with scribbled notes in what Bucky thinks is fairly decent penmanship. It certainly looks better than his own.

Tony is still standing by the doorway, looking at Bucky with a cautious and almost alarmed look in his eyes. But like how he had behaved with Clint, Tony shuts the door and sits across from Bucky, eyes still glaring – whether it is false bravado or downright stubbornness is up to anyone’s guess, but something in that reaction brings up a fond memory at the back of Bucky’s mind, where a skinny blonde boy in clothes that almost never fit him well had worn the same expression when facing aggressors and bullies in the classroom and the school yard. Tony flicks one look at the orange juice and his nose wrinkles, chin tilting slightly up in the air.

There is something almost comically candid in that reaction. 

“It’s not poisoned.” Bucky says, and when Tony simply cocks an eyebrow at him, he picks up the glass and takes a sip before setting back down. “Better?”

“What do you want to discuss?” Tony asks instead.

“I want to know what your whereabouts were prior to four days ago.” Bucky says, getting straight to the point. “We are trying to piece together your timeline that may help us get some perspective.” Tony opens his mouth to question the statement, but Bucky beats him to it. “We have our reports, we have surveillance, but sometimes, in my experience, getting an actual account from the person you are trying to protect provides more insight to things that can be missed.”

“Well, as you know, it’s Easter break and mom said I get to come home for Easter this year since it’s only my first year at Harrow. Dad says it’s my reward for getting in two years early. I wasn’t supposed to start till I was thirteen.” Tony says, voice laced with measured arrogance that seems ill fitting for a child his age. “I was supposed to fly with dad but he cancelled last minute. His meetings in London didn’t work out. Jarvis picked me up, we took the jet and I came home. He didn’t mention anything about having to be away.” Tony shrugs.

Bucky  _ knows _ Harrow School; he had to eliminate a few key royals and their lines when they had stopped being useful to Hydra. Some of those royals had children had sons who had gone to that elite school. Bucky is also aware of how tough that academics are, their strict rules of most privatised institutions like Harrow. Bucky had read Tony’s file, and he knew Tony had joined Harrow at the age of eleven; he can’t imagine that might have been an easy adjustment, especially since he had started schooling at Trinity’s.

“You’re a long way from home.” Bucky says, casual. “What was wrong with Trinity?”

And he watches as Tony’s face darkens, as his gaze lowers briefly to the ground only to look back up and meet Bucky’s unflinchingly.

“You’re out of line. That’s personal.” Tony says, tone even.

“ _ Anthony _ ,” Bucky says, changing his posture and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “From what I understand, you were doing really well in Trinity. Moving you all the way to England had to come from something. We need to know who and why, everyone you’ve come into contact with for the past year to profile possible suspects.”

“I’m sure you already have all of that information on file. Why don’t you stop shitting me and just ask me what you want, already! You’re wasting my time!” Tony bites.

“Why did you dad send you to Harrow?” Bucky ask, as soon as Tony’s last syllable comes out.

“Because they didn’t want me around while they discussed their divorce.” Tony answers, without skipping a beat. It almost sounds like he doesn’t care if his parents had been negotiating their separation, not with his tone or his words.

But Bucky can see how the color rises from his neck, hot and red and dusting over his cheeks, and tips of his ears and nose. He can see just how  _ angry _ Tony is, when his lips presses to a thin line, even though he blinks and tries to portray an unperturbed expression. But Bucky sees the cracks as clear as day, with how Tony’s fingers are tight against the hem of his t-shirt, how the bony knuckles are ashy white, or how his eyes are so bright and raw with emotion that this eleven year old is trying  _ so hard _ to suppress.

(How can an eleven year old  _ do this _ ?)

“Doesn’t look like they’re getting a divorce. Mom and dad seem to be getting along quite well.” Bucky says, maintaining indifference.

“We’re  _ Starks _ . We  _ always _ have our shit together.” Tony  _ scoffs _ . 

Bucky watches as Tony swallows and turns to look at one of the projected e-books on the wall to his left. He watches as Tony reaches up to rub the back of his head, dimple minutely hollowing as he presses his lips together to a thin line, like he’s  _ trying to keep his shit together _ . 

“Anthony, we want to protect you.” Bucky says, careful.

“How much is my dad paying you to keep me  _ safe _ ?” Tony turns to look at him sharply, eyes watering. 

“That’s not –“

“Is there a separate contract for you to be my friend, too? Are you and Captain America supposed to spend time around me so that I can learn how to be a better man, or be brave and fearless, or something? Is that why the house is locked up and different and you are  _ all _ staying here? Because you’re wasting your fucking time. As soon as mom and dad calls me, I’m going back to Harrow. I don’t need any of you. Coming home was a stupid mistake anyway! Besides, Captain America is back, there’s no point being  _ home! _ ” Tony gets up and moves away from the couch to sit by his books on the floor. 

Bucky isn’t sure  _ what _ to say. And he can only imagine Steve’s expression in the kitchen downstairs as this entire scene plays out in the projected screen Friday had brought up for them to watch. Bucky knows a moot point when he sees one, and he already had the information he had come for.

So he stands up and heads for the door.

“Kid, you may think that your dad has all of us in his pocket, but truth is, Captain Ass? He volunteered to be a part of your protection detail. He actually  _ fought  _ to be a part of your protection detail. He didn’t have to. He’d be a lot more useful elsewhere. All of us would be a lot more useful elsewhere.” Bucky shrugs. “But Captain Ass thinks you’re worth  _ something _ . _ ” _

Tony’s head whips up to  _ stare _ at Bucky and there, right in that very moment, Bucky sees a lonely, left behind eleven year old boy who had been taught to swallow everything, don’t show the world anything less that your hard as iron exterior, because you are born into a legacy that requires you to be something more than just extraordinary. 

“He  _ does _ ?” Tony asks, incredulous.

It is the first real and solid crack to his armor.

Bucky thinks it is a small victory.

He shrugs in reply, keeping it casual. “We all do.” Bucky turns to prepare to leave the room. “If you think of anything fishy, any suspicious character you may have encountered anywhere on campus, at the airports, anything at all, let us know. I mean,  _ anything _ .” 

Tony nodding is all the response he waits for before he shuts the door behind him to join the rest downstairs.

Bucky is not surprised to find Steve gone.

__

  
Clint is by himself in the pantry listening to Cooper and Lila tell him about their day at school, while poor little Nathaniel tries to get as much screen time as his older siblings, mispronouncing most of his words and still trying so, so hard to keep up with the other two. Clint hears the words, about Cooper’s baseball, Lila’s science projects and Nathaniel’s role as a pineapple in the school play. The screen on his phone shows  _ chaos _ , three children showing healthy competition for their dad’s affection and limited attention -- and Clint would have it no other way. It is bright and early where they are, and they are all dressed for school. Clint sees the new baseball hate on Cooper’s head and earrings he had gotten Lila on her birthday, he sees the t-shirt he had gotten earlier that year on Nathaniel and like every video-call,  _ every single fucking time _ , Clint is reminded of his poor decisions, his mistakes, and hideously gaping regret that is now a permanent resident on his chest, like a growing tumor that can never be treated.

Clint had made peace with the idea of the divorce, had accepted his shortcomings and miscalculation. Laura had never faulted him for being an Avenger, had never held his line of work against him. She had always encouraged him to be with the Avengers,  _ because they’re gods and they need someone to keep them down to earth _ .

And what a  _ fine _ job Clint had done in that department.

Clint never  _ ever _ blames Laura for the divorce.

How can he?

The kids’ father had been branded an international criminal and while Laura and the kids had been kept under the radar, while Tony had ensured it had  _ remained _ that way even after Clint had been cleared at trial and had come home, the divorce had been the final safety net to ensure that Clint had absolutely no outright visible ties or papertrail that his enemies can use against him. 

Or, well, that had been the idea, anyway.

(Secrets, no matter how safe-guarded, will never remain a secret. One day, somehow, it will always,  _ always _ , come out.)

Clint knows that the threat never fully disappears, which is why he had agreed to stay away, he had agreed to no custody, he had agreed to a once week conversation with his children with a stopwatch limit of thirty minutes at a time. And Laura - god,  _ Laura _ \- is someone who truly deserves better than the little  _ shit _ Clint thinks he is. Laura,  _ his _ Laura, good, strong, smart and amazing Laura, remains an absolute trooper throughout. 

And when Clint hears the honk of the bus, as he always do, every damn Tuesday, he plasters on a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, says his goodbye and wishes Nathaniel luck at pineapple-practice, tells Cooper to work on his elbow, and lovingly reminds Lila that her ideas will change the world, one science experiment at a time. He thanks Laura, who simply smiles at him and says, see you next Tuesday. She doesn’t tell him it’s okay, she doesn’t say it will get better, she doesn’t use words to give false hope and even falser promises. Even when Clint knows that Laura can see  _ everything _ in his face, just as much as he can feel the strain and heat building in the corner of his eyes, or the light pressure build up in his sinuses when he hears  _ his children _ throw the front door open so quickly that the slam of the wood against the door stopper is audible, even through the video-call. Laura says nothing when Clint part his lips to say thank you, when the breath catches in his throat as he listens to the kids run down the front lawn to get into the bus. Clint  _ knows _ that they are past the thirty minute limit, that Laura keeps the call rolling so Clint can have just that much more time with his children, until the silence presses down in the sunny house with the mustard yellow walls. 

Laura’s smile falters just the  _ tiniest _ bit then and Clint gives her a stiff nod and ends the call himself.

It does not get easier even after almost two years.

(And it never will.)

Clint thumps his head against wall, causing a few bottles and cans to rattle with the sheer force of the action. He does it one more time until he feels the warmth of the impact against the back of his skull spread, the physical pain registering and helping clear in what he so sarcastically calls emotional-sinuses; this is where he would usually pour himself  _ one _ drink. He thinks that tonight, he’ll have whiskey. Clint gives himself his customary five minutes to ponder what to drink, as he always does for the past two years like clockwork.

Except before the fourth minute is over, Clint sees the light shift from under the pantry door and ingrained habit and muscle memory makes him automatically fall completely and deathly still. He had been sure that the other had retired to the guest room and Tony had been in bed hours ago. The scrape of furniture against the floor and sudden silence that had followed after it makes Clint frown as he carefully turns the doorknob and catches the reflection of the perpetrator on stretch of glass windows. 

Tony had a stool against the counter, which he climbs over to get one of the kitchen cabinets to open, one hand bracing against the cabinet door and the other reaching up to the top most shelf. HIs fingers barely touches it because for an eleven year old, Tony is  _ tiny _ . He is short, all awkward knees and elbows, and about as waify as they get. Tony reminds Clint of that type of kid who would have been picked on in school  _ mercilessly _ . He doesn’t look like he had any strength in him at all. Clint isn’t sure  _ what _ is on that top shelf but he moves quickly when he sees the stool slip forward and Tony’s footing gives way from under him. 

The clatter of the stool slipping across the kitchen and Clint holding what feels like an underweight boy in his arms, one hand poised against the side of Tony’s neck, the only barrier between the edge of counter and Tony’s face is followed by  _ silence _ and the hitch of Tony’s breathing. Clint is quick to set Tony back down on the floor, keeping Tony’s back to the kitchen door way where Clint can see Steve and Bucky blinking in confusion - they must have heard the noise from upstairs. Clint gives them a look that makes them both take a step back as Cint turns his attention to Tony and steadies him on his footing by holding the boy around the shoulders. 

“Hey.” Clint asks, and snaps his fingers in front of Tony’s wide eyed gaze. Clint peers at him when Tony blinks. “You okay?”

“Where did you come from!” Tony asks.

“Uhh,” Clint turns to look at the open pantry door, and then retracts his grip on Tony’s shoulders, kneeling on the ground so that they are almost at eye-level. “Sorry. I was talking to my kids.” 

That seems to wipe what had looked like mounting irritation on Tony’s face, completely disarming him. “Agents have families, too?” 

Clint cannot bite back the genuine smile from tugging at his face at the honest to god confusion Tony had on his face. The expression, Clint thinks, is kind of funny, and reminds him of that one time when Tony had finally met his family in their farm house during Ultron’s tantrum. “Some, I guess?”

“Are they gonna be agents, too?” 

(Little agents!)

Clint’s smile is fuller, he’s practically grinning. “Yeah, no, I don’t think so. Maybe a pro-baseball player, a scientist and a -- well, I’m not sure about that one. He enjoys being a pineapple at the school play.” Tony looks so  _ puzzled _ that Clint decides to take pity on him by changing the subject. “I dunno what you were looking for up there, but,” Clint stands and cranes his neck to look at the empty shelf. He reaches forward to feel the flat surface and finds nothing. “there’s nothing there.”

“Oh.” Tony’s shoulders visibly slumps. “Okay.”

“What were you looking for, anyway?” Clint asks, casual and easy, like he’s not all that interested as he shuts the cabinet and picks up the fallen stall off the floor, sliding it back to its proper place.

“Jarvis keeps my favorite cookies up there. He hides it from mom and dad.” Tony shrugs. “I guess they just moved it or something during the renovation.” 

Clint thinks that his drink is not going to happen.

Nope.

“Maybe they’re in the pantry?” Clint offers but Tony shakes his head. “Well, then I dunno what to tell you. But I’m gonna fix myself a grilled cheese sandwich. You want one?”

Tony looks hesitant but when he gives a small nod, Clint finds himself  _ pumped _ and determined. He starts to gather the ingredients out of the fridge and gets to work. He doesn’t tell Tony to take a seat, he doesn’t ask him to step away when he works the knife through the cheese, and he purposely doesn’t make eye contact. Tony doesn’t flinch when he flips the sandwich in the pan, he doesn’t even flinch at Clint’s knife skills. But he eyes the sandwich with curiosity, which Clint carefully plates in two separate plates and carries it to the counter. Tony follows him like a duckling, and climbs over a chair to sit. Tony doesn’t even oppose when Clint pours him a glass of milk and pops a beer can for himself.

They sit in silence from across each other, while Clint takes his first bite. He watches as Tony picks up a piece with a paper towel, how his movements are measured and how he sits upright on his chair. He notices how his elbows are not on the table, how they are parallel to his ribs. Tony is the personification of table etiquette, both in posture and even in how he takes a bit of his sandwich. That etiquette momentarily slips when Tony takes the second and third bite too quickly and Clint isn’t sure what to  _ feel _ in watching Tony lose control, because  _ damn _ , Clint  _ knows _ he makes a  _ mean _ grilled cheese sandwich, only to freeze for about two heart beats and exercise control once more. Clint doesn’t miss the glimmer in Tony’s eyes, doesn’t miss how his dimples hollow very visibly after the first bite and swallow. He does not miss how Tony blinks in appreciation and most of all, he doesn’t miss the smile that tugs at Tony’s lips.

Clint is unable to stop the overwhelming feeling of pity for Tony in that moment. 

His thoughts go back to his children, and he thinks of how Cooper always leans over his bowl of cereal elbows all over the table. He thinks of how Lila leans on her left elbow whenever she eats her dinner, propping herself up on the chair just so that she can scoop her dad’s shepherd’s pie into her mouth, and finish all her carrots and peas. He thinks back to the video of Nathaniel grinning and laughing so openly while eating his favorite sponge cake, with crumbs all over his cheeks and front. Clint can see the big difference between his children, and Tony and isn’t a fool to think he doesn’t understand the circumstances. Hell, Clint thinks back to all the under aged children he had been exposed to, be it during training, during a mission, or his own memories of his past - the difference is like a chasm in the Grand Canyon. Tony is born into the  _ bourgeoisie _ of society, what Clint likes to think is modern royalty. Of course he’d be trained to behave a certain way, to speak a certain way, to hold himself up a certain way.

Clint just can’t get over the fact that this is coming from an eleven year old who is  _ not _ undergoing rigorous training to be some sort of  _ assassin _ . Or  _ something _ .

He’s just an eleven year old rich kid. 

And yet the way he behaves, his words that lack fear and is pushed and coated with so much confidence that never quite reaches Tony’s eyes, tells an opposite story. Tony is a walking contradiction at eleven, just as he had been at almost-five -- Clint can see clearly why the Tony he  _ knows _ is so good with hiding the truth about himself at almost-fifty. It had been  _ ingrained _ into him from the fucking cradle. No matter what angle Clint looks at it, whether it is from surveillance feed or the kid eating a regular, grilled cheese sandwich, his conclusion remains the same. 

(This is  _ fucked up _ . No wonder he’s so  _ fucking fucked up. _ )

“Thank you for the snack.” Tony says, and Clint dips his head in response. “It was really good.” 

“Anytime.” Clint says, as he takes a sip of his beer. 

“Do your kids like it?” Tony asks, tilting his head to one side, hands folded over his knees as he leans against the chair. “This kind of sandwich.”

Clint smiles humorlessly at the rim of his beer can. “Cooper and Lila, the first two, yes. It used to be our Saturday night snack.”

“And the other kid?” 

Clint looks up at Tony then and maybe it is simply a moment of weakness that Clint feels himself stammer in the eyes of an eleven year old. Maybe it’s because today is Tuesday and Tuesdays are the worst days for Clint to have his emotions canned and tucked away into a shelf to sit quietly. Tuesdays always leave him feeling a little vulnerable and that evening, in front of a boy who is the same age as Cooper, Clint thinks that the tight seams he meticulously maintains is slightly fraying around the corners. Tony’s brown eyes hold no judgment, just open curiosity, like whenever Cooper asks him if this is the year Clint will get to attend his birthday, or if this is the season Clint will get to watch him pitch in the field.

And every single time Cooper asks him a question, Clint cannot lie.

Not entirely.

“I honestly don’t know.” Clint says, huffing a mirthless chuckle. “I left my family when Nathaniel was about two years old. He wasn’t exactly very appreciative of fine cuisine.” 

The swig from his beer is longer this time and Clint wishes it had been whiskey instead. Maybe two or three glasses of it, at this point.

“But you’re talking to them.” Tony asks, eyes darting left and right when Clint nods. “So if you’re talking to them, it means you’re okay with them. Why aren’t you  _ with _ them? Is it because I’m your mission or something?” Clint shakes his head. “Because I’ll talk to Colonel Rhodes. Having five of you here is overkill, anyway, right?”

(Always, always the man with the biggest and brightest heart, aren’t you, Tony?)

“Nah, nah, it’s not that. Although I appreciate it.” Clint says, and swallows past the lump in his throat. “I can’t see them or go to them because my wife and I are divorced.” Clint thinks that the look on Tony’s face is the most vulnerable expression he has ever seen on the boy. “I made some miscalculated decisions, that had severe international repercussions. And because of who I am, of  _ what _ I am, returning to my family was not an option. Returning to them would have endangered them, no matter how discreet or how careful I can be. Gambling for their safety and  _ my _ emotional needs is something I will not risk.” Clint takes another swig from his beer can. “The bad guys _ always _ find out, Tony. No secret is safe from  _ anyone _ . So, the divorce was something I worked with. I have no ties to them, they live separately far away and I get to call them once a week in little quiet and secured corners like your kitchen pantry.”

Tony is quiet and Clint takes that as a good thing. He takes the pause as a chance to grab another beer from the fridge, wishing for the upteenth time that it had been something stronger. Clint thinks is fucking hilarious that he had said those words Tony, the first time he had ever said everything, let alone anything remotely personal out loud since his exile after the Civil War. Natasha hadn’t been around  _ then _ and even after the dust had settled and he had finally touched down in American soil years later, this particular topic had not come up  _ at all _ ; Natasha knows better and had conveniently looked the other way, like the gaping hole in Clint’s chest hadn’t existed. 

The sound of the beer can popping fills the space in between.

“You miss them.” Tony says and it is a statement.

“More than you can fucking imagine.” Clint says, soft and quiet, like it is a well guarded secret.

“Let me share something with you, being a  _ kid _ .” Tony says and Clint looks up to see Tony sit up straighter in his chair. “You probably miss a lot of things, but just because we’re kids, it doesn't mean we don’t understand. We just  _ deal _ with your decisions to keep us safe, to do what is better for  _ us _ because we’re kids, and because you say and believe you do it out of love. We play baseball and do science projects and be pineapples because we have  _ no _ choice or power to do anything else, or  _ say _ anything else. You wouldn’t listen to us anyway, what do we know, we’re  _ kids _ . We don’t choose our parents. We just deal with whatever we have. I’m pretty sure Cooper, Lila and Nathaniel miss you more than you can fucking imagine, too.” 

Clint feels like he has his head underwater. 

“That’s pretty insightful coming from a kid.” Clint says, his tone carefully betraying none of the raging storm he feels under his ribcage. 

“I’m eleven and a half and a dependant minor.” Tony says, chin tilting higher. “But I am a  _ Stark _ . You cannot judge me based on other children. I  _ have _ to be above that. It is the Stark Legacy. It is our duty to pave the way to the future and it’s possibilities. For the good of the people.” Tony cants his head to the side. 

“Tony,” Clint huffs a shaky and incredulous breath. “You’re a kid. It’s  _ okay _ to  _ be _ a kid  _ sometimes _ , even as a  _ Stark _ . You do know that, right?”

Tony doesn’t say anything to address it and shifts the subject completely to its original purpose as he hops off his chair and stands with his head held high. He had his hands in his pockets, and there is so much in his posture that Clint recognizes, both from what he knows of Tony Stark, his former teammate and what he had liked to think of as his “former” friend and Howard Stark from all the black and white reels and old newspaper clippings.

“Your kids will  _ always _ love you and miss you, even when you are never there or you always leave them behind to  _ work _ . They got no one else.” 

Clint doesn’t think that Tony realizes how his voice is uneven, how it shakes with each syllable or how his nose and cheeks flushes from what Clint can only imagine is probably envy and bitterness, at having this father standing before him telling him that he misses his kids and can’t see them because of a divorce and the need to keep them safe. Clint cannot imagine what it must feel like to a kid who is always left alone to strangers and a caretaker, when his parents are always away, when his father had made it his life’s mission to  _ search _ for Captain America, to hear  _ this. _

(It’s kind of really wrong, hearing this from a child.)

“I’m sorry you had to hear all that.” Clint says, shame creeping into his tone.

“Don’t be.” Tony says, nodding a little shakily and blinking a few times. Clint can see the gleam of sadness in Tony’s eyes, how it shines on the surface and how Tony tries so, so fucking  _ hard _ to keep his shit together. “I appreciate your honesty.”

Clint cannot look away.

He fucking  _ can’t _ .

“I have to head back to HQ tomorrow, so I’m not sure if I’ll see you in the morning. Or if I’ll have the opportunity,” Clint says, “but I hope that years from now, you will remember how you made one pathetic old man feel like he isn’t the biggest hopeless loser of a dad in the world. And that my grilled sandwich remains the best.” 

Tony gives a small nod, “I will try.”

“Your dad loves you.” Clint  _ blurts out _ , because he feels like he needs to, because he would want to say the very same words to Cooper, Lila and Nathaniel, even if this boy isn’t his son, because no child - no matter what legacy they are born into, deserves to not hear those words, when they are always alone, always standing in shoes far too big for themselves with a weight far too heavy to lift on their own. And those words stop Tony and makes him freeze on the spot and Clint watches as the distasteful scowl starts to creep into his face, how the flush darkens and Clint can see the telltale signs of a rebellious argument coming  up, because what can you do, except snide at those who dare poke at your weakness, when in the corner of your eyes, you start to feel the strain of the weight of your name, your destiny, the lessons that had been repeated to you over and over again? What else can you do, when you are just a little  _ boy _ , why you are just a goddamn  _ kid _ ? “I know you must hear that a lot, and it must get old. And her me out, I’m not saying this to comfort you, I’m not saying this  _ just because _ you are a kid. But your parents love you. Years from now, you will learn and  _ discover _ how your dad always believed that  _ you _ are his greatest invention. We parents -- we’re  _ not _ perfect. But we do our best, just like how you say you kids do your best. I hope you remember that, growing old.”

The expression melts away to something else, like a open book with pages flipping because this is where Clint sees how small Tony really is in the center of the very massive and empty manor, where he spends his days perfecting the armor he is always surrounded with, where he recites words that trick adults into believing just how put together he really is -  _ just how many times did you have to even recite all those words to yourself, kid? _ He sees something in Tony’s expression that he recognizes in the fleeting glimpses he had seen of Tony’s vulnerability as an adult; that time in Leipzig when he had begged them to surrender, back at the farmhouse during Ultron’s threat, on the helicarrier during Loki’s threat, the quiet early mornings when Tony thinks he is alone on the communal floor of the Avengers tower and no one had been watching, or those quiet nights after a fight or an argument, when fatigue and the weight of the world somehow seeps into bones, and Tony would just reach up and loosen his tie like it is the most difficult thing to do.

Or that night in Wakanda, when he realizes he had been played -- Clint had hesitated in that moment, for five seconds flat when he had seen how Tony’s face had crumpled, only to come back up again like walls being restored, hiding the weakened and ready to collapse foundation from withing. 

Or even that night when Tony had laid in bed staring at the window after hours of gruelling procedure.

(How oddly clandestine the truth is  _ now _ , isn’t it, when you start to see the softest bits of a man so exposed before you)

“Good night, Agent Barton.” Tony says, barely able to suppress the  _ tremble _ in his lower lip.

The act fails when Tony turns around and  _ bolts _ out of the room and up the stairs, the door slamming in his wake. Clint remains calm, drawing in a breath as he looks up at a wall, and asks, “Friday? Is he okay?”

Friday doesn’t respond verbally.

But the screen that materializes on the wall is her answer and there, in the room that is littered with books, paper, completed Lego models from the sets Sam and Bucky had brought, somewhere under the window is Tony hugging one of the sofa throw pillows, face buried into it as he cries, and  _ cries _ and muffles the sounds that cannot seem to stop coming out of his mouth, because Clint can understand, he does not have to be a genius to know that  _ you are a Stark, you cannot show the world any weaknesses, because you have to be  _ **_better_ ** .

The beer can in Clint’s hands  _ crumples _ in his fist, and he  _ slams _ it down flat against the countertop.

(Well played, Legolas.)

\--

Tony surprises everyone when he joins them for breakfast, dressed, groomed and looking rather prim and proper. He says good morning, and picks a chair and asks Bruce if he can have the crossword page of the newspaper. Bruce is quite stunned in the sudden change and willingness to be around the supposedly two people he didn’t really like that he had handed over the page without argument.

The momentarily frozen breakfast humdrum proceeds, with Steve flipping pancakes and Bucky pouring coffee into mugs. Tony starts to answer the crossword puzzle after staring at the newspaper fo while, blinking a few times like he’s trying to figure out the page before him. 

“D-Did Agent Barton leave?” He asks, pencilling in his answers. 

“He was gone before sunrise.” Bucky answers, setting coffee mugs down on the table.

“Are there any developments on the terrorist threat?” Tony still does not look up from the puzzle, and does not see how the three of them exchange looks.

“No.” Steve answers. “Unfortunately.” 

“I guess I can’t go out at all, huh?” Tony says, setting the pencil down and lifting his gaze to look at Steve. It is the first time he makes eye contact since he had woken up in his eleven and a half years old body.

“I’m sorry, Tony --” 

“ _ Anthony _ .” Tony  _ corrects _ .

“-- Anthony.” Steve amends, as he turns the flame off and picks up three plates of pancakes to serve at the table. 

“Thank you, Captain.” Tony says, his manners not lost, despite the tension that is now looming over his head like a personalized storm cloud. “When did my father find you?”

Steve meets Bruce’s gaze from the over the rim of his glasses, and casually answers, “Don’t you remember?”

“I wouldn’t be  _ asking _ if I knew.” Tony says, taking a bite off his pancake. “Well?”

“We first met when you were almost five. Your father had to go for an emergency trip and you were left in my care.” Steve says, which isn’t a lie. He holds Tony’s gaze and sees how Tony  _ cannot _ remember what had happened just a little less than a week ago. No recognition flickers over those still  large and very expressive brown eyes. Tony may act like a grown up, may behave a little too maturely for his age, but he is not  _ that _ good at hiding. Even as an adult, there had been numerous times where Tony had slipped -- it makes Steve wonder if Tony had known that his eyes betrays his emotions, and if that is the reason Tony frequently wears his tinted glasses, using trends and couture designers to disguise his own  _ flaw _ .”You don’t remember, do you? I guess you were very young…” 

“I would have remembered.” Tony says and looks back at his plate and continues to eat. “I appreciate your honesty, Captain.” 

Steve admits he almost  _ chokes _ on his breakfast at  _ that. _ “You  _ do _ ?” 

“Dad says that you would never lie even if your ass was on fire because you are such a do-gooder.” Tony says just as Bucky  _ snorts _ and looks away to hide the grin that is threatening to rip his face in half. “My dad talks about the ‘good old days’ sometimes, when he is drunk and stressed. I will believe my dad’s words.” 

“You will believe your dad’s drunken words.” Steve says, punctuating his words with a cock of his eyebrows and watching Tony set his utensils down and finish his glass of orange juice.

“Alcohol doesn’t make you a liar. It actually makes you honest.” Tony folds his napkin and sets it on the side of the table. “That’s basic biology.” Tony says and Steve swears he can almost hear Tony saying  _ duh _ at the end of that statement. “Thank you for breakfast. I’ll be in my room, reading.” 

Tony leaves the kitchen and his half eaten plate.

Steve looks up to see Bruce trying not to  _ smother _ his grin and hide behind his goddamn newspaper, just as Bucky claps him on the back, patting him a few times on the shoulder.

“Terrible not only with  _ women _ but with  _ kids _ too, apparently.” Bucky says.

“Oh come on!” Steve says in protest, just as Bucky and Bruce finally dissolves into amused chuckles.

\--

“Captain Rogers?” Friday materializes before Steve, who had been pacing around the study in an effort to come up with ways to bridge the obvious gap between himself and the holed up eleven year old three doors down. Three weeks had ticked since that  _ one moment _ at breakfast. After it, Tony had gone back to ignoring  _ everyone _ in the house and that had included Bruce, which had been the biggest concern. It had been a short-lived victory and miracle and while Tony doesn’t do anything wrong, Steve wishes that the cycle of silence would already break.

“Yes, Friday?”

“My security protocols are being breached by the younger Boss as we speak. I had had wanted to report this earlier but unfortunately, the young Boss had been making very good progress and realized that he had control over some of the protocols -- Captain Rogers!”

Steve’s quick strides carries him down the hallway, where he pushes the door open, breaking the lock in the process and finds Tony standing in the middle of the room with multiple screens around him, several newspaper coverage of Tony Stark, of the Maria and September Foundation and the progress of Stark Industries market share.

Tony looks through the screens and meets Steve’s gaze. “Where are my parents?”

Steve holds his hands up, a gesture to placate and calm. “Tony, I can explain, I  _ swear _ \--”

“ _ Don’t lie to me!” _

“I won’t. I swear, the whole truth.“ Steve says kneeling on the ground, his figure cutting through the screens. “You’ve been displaced in time because you were involved in a mission to discover multiple disappearances around the belt of Nepal, India, Pakistan and Afghanistan. Something got to you and - and did this to you. You are not an eleven and half year old boy, you are a fifty five year old  _ man _ \-- “

“Where are my  _ parents _ ?” 

Steve opens his mouth to respond, to tell continue to tell Tony that this decades into the future, that his parents had died a long time ago, that they are not coming back. Except the words do not leave his mouth as he watches the flush stain all over Tony’s face and tears start to roll down his eyes, lips trembling in an effort to still look like he has his shit together, when he clearly, does not.

“Friday, I am your creator, I am your  _ owner _ , I saw it in the coding of your program, I am  _ ordering _ you to  _ tell me _ , where are my parents!” Tony says just silence cuts into the room and Friday materializes between Tony and Steve, just as footsteps echo down the hallway and Bucky and Bruce comes skidding down the hallway, pausing by the open door.

Steve looks up at Friday, begging her with his gaze and shaking his head, watching as the expression on the AI’s face morphs to that of helplessness. Friday looks  _ apologetic _ , and Steve shakes his head, “Oh Friday, no, Rhodey’s protocols --”

“I am sorry, Captain Rogers. But Boss had refurbished my coding sometime ago. His protocols and his commands supersedes that of Colonel Rhodes. I am so sorry. I must obey.” Friday says and vanishes in a scatter of purple and gold lights, taking the previous flaring screens with her.

And replaces them all with multiple screens that shows the car accident that Maria and Howard Stark had been a part of, the news coverage of the Winter Soldier’s trials and a streaming videoclip of Tony’ s press release on where he stands on the Winter Soldier’s crimes and trial. 

_ “I am actively choosing not to press charges against the crimes the Winter Soldier has committed to the late Howard and Maria Stark if only because…well, it isn’t right, is it? I’m trying to be the grown up here. And correct me if I’m wrong, but Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes is a decorated soldier who had served the United States government in wars that no ordinary man can fight. It only went to shit when HYDRA got a hold of him, didn’t it? So technically, it isn’t him to blame but Hydra? Similarly, the people responsible for Captain America’s assassination are not to be blamed.” _

Tony is  _ slammed _ with all the information they had all thought they can keep away from him, the onslaught of it leaving him shaking and stunned to utter silence. In that very moment, whatever act Tony knows he had to always maintain lies like scattered ashes around him, because he opens his mouth to say something, to ask something, but no words come out. He wipes the tears from his eyes with a vicious swipe of the back of his hand against his wet lashes, and yet it does nothing to stop the confusion, it does nothing to stop Tony’s mind form piecing information together.

“That’s enough.” Steve says and looks up at the ceiling, “Friday _ ,  _ I said _ , that’s enough!” _

But Friday does nothing, the screens do not disappear and Steve is left there staring helplessly at Tony. Bruce doesn’t even linger and purposely removes himself from their vicinity, going as far as stepping beyond the front door and into the stretch of the lawn below.

“You lied to me.” Tony says, words shaking as they roll off his lips. “You’re not supposed to lie! You’re a honest man! A good man! That’s why they picked you for the program! Because you were  _ good _ but you lied!”

“No.” Bucky says, stepping in. “He didn’t. I did. I lied to you, he had nothing to do with it, I  _ killed your parents _ \--”

“Buck!”

“ _ You’re a liar!” _ Tony  _ screams _ and  _ shoves _ at Steve’s chest. “You ruined this family! First you take my dad away! And then you ruin their marriage! It’s all your fault! I hate all of you! I hate you! You took away everything! I wish you didn’t exist! I hate you! I hope you die! You liar! Liar!” Tony’s fist comes raining down against Steve, one after the other, non stop with all the force a skinny little eleven year old can muster, and Steve  _ takes it _ .  _ “Liarliarliarliarliarliarliarliar _ !” 

Bucky steps in and grabs Tony, pulls him away like he had done that one time many nights ago, wrapping his arms around the child who screams and  _ screams _ and  _ screams _ until his vocals stretch like and strain like rubber bands fraying and snapping. Tony is crying with an anger so visceral that when he pauses in his screams to suck in a breath, it comes out  _ louder _ with the impact of an exploding bomb. 

Bucky and Steve is thrown back against opposite sides of the room, going through plaster and wallpaper, as the glass windows shatters and bits and pieces of furniture is blown away and the screams  _ halt _ and is replaced by the sound of Tony  _ wheezing _ and collapsing on the floor, wriggling as his eyes roll back and his chest arches off the ground.

Steve and Bucky are scrambling off the ground to get to the seizing boy, Steve picking him up the by the head and carefully rolling him to his side. Bucky doesn’t even wait and leaves the room immediately to get Bruce. 

“Get Strange! Get Strange,  _ now!” _ Steve  _ barks _ at the ceiling, just as Friday initiates the call and Bruce comes running through the doorway, kneeling beside the spasming body. 

He doesn’t get to do much because the seizure slows to a stop as Tony  _ gasps _ aloud, arching off the ground as his limbs and body starts to elongate and fill out, baby fat around Tony’s face slowly being replaced by sharp cheekbones and handsome features, the messy hair slowly growing out longer and then growing shorter to what Steve recognizes as one of the many stylish haircuts Tony had worn over the years. Fabric rips as hair on his limbs and chin start to grow, and it is almost so freakishly gruesome ho Tony ages right before their eyes, until what lies very still before them is pale and very lean adult, with bags lining his eyes and lips dry and cracked and blue around the corners.

The silence that falls around them is deafening, and is only broken when Friday announces that Rhodey will be arriving in sixteen hours.

Bruce reaches forward first, turning Tony’s head and pulling an eyelid open and then examining the insides of Tony’s mouth, leaning closer to feel his faint and slowing breathing; Tony remains unresponsive. Bruce presses a hand against Tony’s abdomen, applying certain pressure and then shakes his head. 

“I don’t have the equipment to deal with this here. We need to get him to a hospital.  _ Now _ .” Bruce says, standing up and grabbing the blanket form the displaced sofa, throwing it over Tony’s form. 

“Bruce…” Steve looks alarmed but doesn’t hesitate in carefully picking Tony off the floor and following Bruce down the stairs to the car that skids to a halt by the front door.

“If my suspicions are correct, then we better hope his symptoms is  _ just _ from alcohol poisoning.”    
  
Steve isn’t sure if he should be afraid of the lack of confidence in Bruce’s expression.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said it will be lighter. I apologise for that not being true. Clearly. If you are reading this as a standalone, you may not recognise a couple of references from [Rebirth.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6975445/chapters/15897631)
> 
> That being said, I tried to not make this chapter Steve-centered; I realise now that incorporating _more_ views is a lot harder than I thought it would be. I think I'm gonna revert to Steve next chapter. Oh and Rhodey. Definitely more Rhodey coming up.
> 
> Thank you for reading this far, I hope some of your questions have been addressed. Except I am sure that there will be more after this. Hoping to keep writing and cough up chapters as fast as this one.
> 
> Cheers, everyone!


	4. (˵¯͒⌢͗¯͒˵)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. I may have missed some typos/mistakes/blabla. This is an evergreen story and I am continuously re-reading and editing typos as I go. Tags to be edited/added as i go along and cough up chapters.

(˵¯͒⌢͗¯͒˵)

There is a swell of over-protectiveness that feels like a large inflating balloon in Steve’s chest, constantly enlarging as he watches Strange stand by the foot of Tony’s hospital bed. Steve wants nothing more than to grab Strange by the collar of his cloak and pull him back and away from Tony.

Steve knows better though, and opts to stand to the side instead, tension coiling like twisting tensile steel under his skin, ready to take action if needed.

“The spell remains unchanged.” Strange says the glow of the spell he had looming over Tony’s unconscious frame disappears. “Between this round of aging and the last, what was different?”

Steve and Bucky exchange looks, but Steve straightens and answers, one hand clasped around his wrist behind his back. “The time he spent as both four and eleven years old is the biggest difference. He was four years old far longer.”

“Well, you’re not wrong there.” Strange says and reaches over to press a hand against Tony’s forehead. “What was similar?” Strange looks up and holds Steve’s gaze. “Think, Captain Rogers.”

Steve can feel jaw grind as the answer sticks out in his mind like sore thumb, bright and red. “Tony had learned about the truth of the death of his parents. Both times he was emotionally… compromised.”

The silence that falls between them is thick.

“Compromised.” Strange parrots, eyebrow cocking.

“Yes.” Steve responds. “Compromised.”

“And he reacted…?” Strange prompts, as if cajoling an answer out of a very stubborn _child_ and that might just be it -- Strange had always come across extremely condescending, like the people around him serves him no greater purpose other than to get in his way and waste his time.

(Doesn’t he remind you of _someone_? Maybe that’s the reason you are always on edge around him. It’s a little too close to home, isn’t it?)

“Well, what do you expect? A four year old learns his parents are not coming back, how did you think he reacted? An eleven year old with a lot temper and anger issues, how do _you_ think he reacted?” Steve says, taking a step forward.

“Strong emotional reactions. Well,” Strange turns to look at Tony then, quiet and studying. “If that had been the trigger the first two times, then there shouldn’t be a reason it shouldn’t work the third time. So! All you have to do when he wakes up, is _compromise_ his emotions. Let’s see what happens.”

“Is this a _joke_ to you?” Steve asks, feeling his joints crack when he fists

“Hardly.” Strange says, as a portal opens behind him in a stretch of bright orange light, the familiar antique glass displays and polished wood clearly visible from what Steve recognizes as Strange’s stronghold in eastern side of New York. “But you can’t deny that it seems to work. And seeing as how you’ve failed so spectacularly the first two rounds to keep sensitive information from a _boy_ , think of it as cutting the goose chase. It’s worth a shot. Call me if it works. Doctor Palmer is aware of how sensitive _this_ is. She’ll keep things quiet.”

Strange disappears into the portal and leaves Steve staring after him with the sound of his blood roaring in his ears.

Bucky’s hand on his shoulders breaks loud rush, as he turns to look at Steve and shakes his head. “I know you don’t like him, but you can’t deny there’s sense in what he said.”

“As far as magic goes? Sure.” Steve’s response is dry as he carefully sinks into the chair beside Tony’s bed, watching as Bucky tugs the blankets a little higher before taking the chair by the window. “Oh, Buck…”

“It’s worth a shot, you know?” Bucky shrugs, both of them aware of how

“He deserves better.” Steve sighs, “He really, really does.”

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” Bucky says, “Tony must have figured that out years later, as he got older. Howard’s choices were his own. How he treated his marriage, his kid - that was his own doing. He may have used most of his time and resources in trying to _find you_ , and with good reason; Hydra wanted the formula that made you, _you_ , as well, but that doesn’t mean that Tony’s issues stems from _you_.”

“You’re right, I know you are. I get that. But it doesn’t change the fact that it was _my_ existence --”

“Oh Steve.” Bucky leans against the chair, tilting his head against the ceiling. “It doesn’t change a damn thing.”

“Not one bit, it seems.” Steve sighs. “God, Buck, he just -- I mean you _saw_ and _heard_ \-- he’s just a kid. ”

“I know, buddy.” Bucky

“And things were going so well. I thought we had his surroundings secure, I’m trying to figure out when he might have thought something was up, we were constantly observing him and…”

“The newspaper.” Bucky looks up with a slight jerk.

“The crossword puzzle.” Steve _huffs_ an unamused laugh, shaking his head. “Damn, that was rather _sloppy_ don’t you think?”

“We were all caught off guard. We underestimated him because he was a _kid_ .” Bucky “Walked right into that one, didn’t we? We should have known better, kid or no kid, Tony got into MIT at fifteen, graduated at nineteen with more than one master’s degree, inherited S.I at twenty one with a few PHDs by that time under his belt -- no _kid_ can get all that without being _observant_.”

Steve brings up a hand to rub at his face. “But he’s a good kid. He has his heart in the right place. He’s a good man. And I don’t want to break his heart more than I already have. I don’t want to betray his trust more than I already have. Once was more than enough. This is going to be the fourth time -- I don’t think I can handle it.”

“But you gotta’, Buddy.” Bucky sounds apologetic, regret dripping from each syllable. “What choice do any of us have?”

Steve remains silent, because the truth is, he has no answer to that either.

\--

Rhodey feels like there is a hand clenching around his stomach from within, as he stares at Tony’s sleeping face, knuckles turning ashy white from where he is gripping the foot of the bed. He _knows_ this face too well, knows that stubble, the reddish-purple bags under Tony’s eyes, the vaguely blue tinge around the corner of his lips, _goddamnit_ \-- there are many things in Rhodey’s past he wishes to never revisit, because revisiting and reliving those few moments would tear open wounds that he doesn’t think he can handle and patch over again. He can count a few of those moments in just his one hand and one of them had been that time when Tony had been about to turn twenty one, when Obadiah had given him a few weeks to get his shit together because Tony can’t afford to be a kid anymore, he had very big boots to step into when he takes hold of the helm of Stark Industries, because _we need you now more than ever, Tony, your legacy_ **_needs_ ** _you_ , had been that asshole’s words, gentle and soft, a cover-up for the greedy and manipulating assbag that he truly had been from within. It had been a week after the funeral, a fucking day after Tony had found out that Rhodey is being deployed to the middle east, two _fucking_ days after Tony had learned that Jarvis’s plane had gone down in the Atlantic on his way to London and Paris along with a hundred twenty other passengers, because Tony had asked Jarvis to handle his mother’s estates, to foresee the deed transfers himself and to bring home his mother’s private belongings, to ensure that everything that Maria Stark had held dear in two of the cities she had loved the most gets transferred smoothly without _any_ hiccups, because those, oh Tony _wants those_.

Rhodey remembers the morning he had gotten the call, at exactly five-eighteen, because poor old Rosario, the housekeeper, had found Tony on the floor when she had gotten up in her godforsaken hours in the morning to start her daily tasks -- Tony had always poked fun at her the way a son would tease their aging grandmother, affectionately calling her the ‘old-rooster of Stark manor’. And Rosario, good old Rosario had taken it in stride, had given back as good as she had gotten -- god, Rhodey can still hear how she had been screaming on the phone all those years ago, _sobbing_ and fucking _terrified_ when she had called him to tell him that Mister Tony is lying in a pool of his own vomit and is not looking good, _Mister Tony very, very sick!_

She had not known who else to call.

There had been _no one else_ to call.

Rhodey remembers the smell of disinfectant, how it had made him want to gag as he watches beyond the glass wall of the emergency room, an arm around a downright _scared_ Rosario who had been trying to dry her tears with a pressed handkerchief, while doctors pumped Tony’s stomach empty, hooking him up to many IV lines -- god, fuck, Tony had looked like an overly decorated Christmas fucking tree _._

 _I fucking_ **_hate_ ** _magic_ , he thinks, grinding his teeth and taking a step back and walking out of the room in a huff, anger in his footsteps, peppered with the dread and cold fear he remembers feeling a long, _long_ time ago. Rhodey feels sick, nauseated even, as his stomach turns acid and the sharp taste of it lingers in his throat. He can feel his eyes _burn_ with tears that he is stubbornly refusing to allow to fall.

He finds a bench by the parking lot, where a stranger is sitting and getting ready to leave, putting out his cigarette.

“Hey uh, you think you can spare me a stick?” Rhodey asks, and the man takes one look at Rhodey’s UCP uniform and pulls out a pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket, offering to light it. Rhodey takes the first drag of nicotine, something he hasn’t done in _decades_ and feels its familiar settling in his lungs like claws sinking into his insides. It is distracting for only about two seconds, a relief even, as he mumbles his thanks and gratitude to the stranger who dips his head and leaves him alone on the bench.

Rhodey takes his time with his one and only cigarette, feeling it tremble between his fingers, much to his irritation. He says nothing when Steve takes a seat beside him, placing a cup of coffee between them on the bench.

“The coffee isn’t that bad.” Steve says and gives Rhodey an apologetic look.

That gets an involuntary chuckle out of Rhodey as he takes the last drag of his cigarette and stubs it out on the ground, flicking the butt into the trash bin. “After you go on tour, honestly, _nothing_ is _that bad_. Funny how you learn to appreciate things more. You would know. You guys, what, steamed everything back then?” Rhodey takes a sip of the coffee and mumbles a thanks.

“Boiled. We boiled _everything_.” Steve says, smiling at the ground.

Rhodey gives a pointed hum and takes another sip of his coffee, arms on his elbow. “This is _fucked up_ , Steve.”

“It is.” Steve says, “Strange was here earlier. He still says that the spell remains unchanged. He thinks that the trigger is emotional pain and --” Rhodey’s sudden burst of laughter _startles_ Steve, making him _stare_ at Rhodey. “-- that to prove a theory, we should inflict it on him.”

“Yeah, well, good luck making _that_ work with _this_ Tony.” Rhodey says, chuckles dissolving to something a little hollower, making Rhodey wish he had another cigarette. Rhodey keeps his head down, blinking rapidly because he will _not_ cry over fucking spilt milk. He will not relive the past or react with the same rawness, because _this_ part of their lives _is long over_ . They had gotten past it, they had moved forward, _goddamn_ if this fucking spell thinks it can undo _decades_ worth of bandaging and stitching of wounds that Rhodey knows will never _truly_ heal. “Oh man, _man_ , Steve -- you know something,” Rhodey brings fingers up to the bridge of his nose, applies pressure there before swiping his fingers outwards to relieve his eyelashes of any excess moisture. “I have _known_ Tony for a very, _very_ long time. And Tony comes with a bagful of issues that goes _way_ beyond the loss of his parents. You _know_ that _now_ , you’ve seen it for yourself. But if I catalogue everything that has happened in his life, it is _this_ one, this - this _part_ in the mega-drama that he really, _truly_ , absolutely _stops_ giving any amount of **_fucks_ ** for himself.” Rhodey doesn’t realize how angry and helpless he sounds. “Inflict more emotional pain my _ass_.”

“The doctors said that --” Rhodey cuts Steve off, and recites the toxicology report that he _knows_ by heart, because those numbers and chemical compounds had seared their marks into Rhodey’s mind forever - alcohol, coke, painkillers and sleeping pills. It had been a miracle that Tony hadn’t _died_ . It had been a goddamn fucking _miracle_ that Rosario had found him when she had, because Tony must have only passed out minutes before – at this point, no one will ever know. Steve cannot form words, and looks at Rhodey with dawning realization. “Why would he do that to himself?”

“Because Tony is the most selfish person in the _world_ when it comes to himself. No, no, wipe that look off your face, Steve, Tony is _not_ suicidal. He has an alcohol problem, he may have dabbed in coke here and there, but he is _not_ suicidal -- him being suicidal would have made more sense. He does this to himself because he thinks he doesn’t deserve anything, that he is _born_ to be left behind -- let me tell you something, the _only_ goddamn _reason_ , Tony didn’t fall to absolute _pieces_ after Afghanistan is because he’s too damn _stubborn_ and _thick-headed_ and _focused_ on the _bigger picture_ to allow it to drag him down. Because he _has_ to, because _he needs to_ , because the only thing he has left is Stark Industries and his intelligence. If he loses _that_ , well, honestly? I don’t want to _fucking know_ . I’d rather _not_ know _._ The Obadiah incident, Pepper leaving him, you leaving him, the team gone -- there is _nothing_ that can be taken from him that hasn’t already been taken.”

“I didn’t know.” Steve looks _ashamed_.

Rhodey thinks it’s pitiful.

Rhodey remembers Pepper looking ashamed too, when Rhodey had met her months after their break-up. He had never understood that.

(Why do they _always_ look ashamed? What’s there to be fucking ashamed of? It’s not like they _knew_.)

“No one _knows_ because _how_ could they?” Rhodey reaches up and presses the heels of his palms against his eyelids, applying pressure. “Being Tony’s friend _is not easy_ . Never fucking was. You’d think three decades later, I’d be a pro at it, but no, sometimes I fucking wonder if I’m secretly a masochist.” Rhodey gives a bit of a chuckle. “But you know what,” Rhodey hands comes down his face in a bit of a scrubbing motion, an attempt to sober up from the emotional projectile-vomit he had just all but dumped all over Steve’s person. “he will always have my back, no matter what. If he loves you, if he _cares_ for you, he will _never_ abandon you, even if you abandon him. He’s proven that to me a thousand times over. Don’t worry about telling him anything, or handling exposing any of this, this timeline or whatever -- I’ll do it.”

“Rhodes, I want to help.”

Rhodey looks up at Steve and sees the _sincerity_ there; it surprises Rhodey, really, because he had expected guilt and regret. Steve wears his heart on his sleeve and is not as good as he thinks he is in hiding his emotions, not completely, not as good as Tony, in comparison.

Rhodey thinks it is a pleasant surprise, and chalks it up on the events in the past almost three months.

(Because you know that Steve had gotten a glimpse and understanding of Tony’s inner core, something that most have not had the chance. Then again, Rhodes, you’re quite emotionally compromised right now, you’re not exactly in the right spot to make almost-accurate assumptions, let alone read people right. Try again tomorrow, once you’ve calmed down.)

“I know you do, Steve.” Rhodey says and gives him a small, depreciating smile. “But _this_ is something I have to do --”

Rhodey stops talking when he sees Bucky running towards them, slowing to a jog as he gets closer. “He’s awake.”

Apprehension starts to settle into Rhodey’s bones, like cold winters when the icy temperatures seeps in, and no amount of rubbing can ease the sensation of a billion needles slowly poking into the flesh, robbing it of warmth. Rhodey sucks in a breath, and exhales with a puffy cheek in an attempt to shake the anxiety off, patting himself on the knees twice before he gets up.

“Well here goes nothing,” Rhodey tells Steve, who is looking up at him with a face that matches the dread Rhodey is feeling under his ribcage.

The Dr. Palmer is in the room when Rhodey arrives, and he waits outside until she is done with her explanation for observation and whatever additional tests Tony will need to undergo in a few hours. Rhodey watches as Tony remains unmoving and uninterested in his bed, gazing into the stretch of green beyond his small hospital window. He gives a small nod when Dr. Palmer says she’ll be back later, but otherwise, it is exactly what Rhodey remembers from three decades ago: Tony in his hospital gown, thinner than he had been since the funeral of his parents, drowning in the hospital blankets and wires with not a goddamn care for _anything_.

Rhodey gives Steve and Bucky a small glance Dr Palmer leaves the room with a nod and reassuring words. He hears her rushed footsteps squeak down the hall when she makes a sharp turn, just as Steve gives him an encouraging nod of his head.

“We’ll be here, if you need anything.” Steve says, with a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Rhodey nods and is about to walk in but his hand pauses on the doorknob. “That reminds me. Carol will be here to come get you, James. I should have said this earlier, and I know it’s a bit of a short notice, but you’re going to be getting the briefing from her. You and Sam will be joining Carol, Vision and Scott. It shouldn’t take more than a week.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Bucky says, nodding. “I gotcha.”

Rhodey sucks in a slow breath, and then turns to enter the room. His movements are almost calculated, from the moment he shuts the door behind him and from when he pulls the chair against the wall to sit on, placing himself on Tony’s left side. As he expects, Tony doesn’t even look away from the window, doesn’t even acknowledge his presence. It takes about twenty minutes before Tony shifts in his position, turning his neck from where the strain must be hard to ignore at this point.

And Rhodey watches as some light enter that gaze, something he remembers seeing too, when Tony had realized all those years ago that his best friend is still in town and hadn’t left for his military tour yet. They had said their goodbyes after all, when Tony had found out that he had received his posting.

(You remember that first goodbye, don’t you? It hadn’t been the final one.)

“Hey,” Rhodey says and feels just a whisper of relief when confusion illuminates the distant gaze in Tony’s eyes.

“Have we met?” Tony asks, slowly sitting up straighter in the bed; it’s here that the memory distorts to the present, because back then, Tony had just looked at him apologetically and had told him that Rhodey shouldn’t be making himself late or delaying his trip or whatever over a party accident, _I’m fine, why are you even still here?_

Rhodey exhales slowly, and nods, “We have.” He says, and feels a smile tug at his mouth. “Come on, man, I would think you’d recognize me even when I’m this old.”

A full solid minute goes by.

And then Tony is sitting up straighter in bed, pushing himself against the pillows. “Rhodey-bear?”

The incredulous tone is _welcoming_ and Rhodey is so glad that Tony’s shock at his appearance breaks the chain of memories that sometimes, still haunts him when he sleeps. “One and only, buddy.”

“You look like shit -- what are you, fucking eighty?” Tony’s surprise is settling into incredulous shock and breathless laughter, the humor reaching its peak just as his mind slowly starts to connect the dots between his actual reality and the current present he finds himself in.

“Fifty-seven.” Rhodey points out, lips thinning as if he is silently saying, _really_ , _Tony_?

It is a look that Tony is very familiar with.

Which is why Rhodey doesn’t blame him when the humor starts to plummet, reality sinking in and Tony just nods, his lips twists in a silent _fuck you_. “Nice try. You’re good though. I’ll give you that.”

“On November twenty-one, nineteen-eighty-seven, at around ten P.M, you had agreed to drive with me all the way to Pennsylvania for thanksgiving, because your own thanksgiving plans that year got cancelled. Your parents had to go to Switzerland. So I asked you, hey Tones, you flying out for thanksgiving? You said nah, I’m gonna hang around here for a change, I thought about going to Amsterdam, but that just seems too much of a hassle. And then I said, well, if you’re just going to mope here all week, why don’t you just come with me to Philly and try dad’s turkey? Dad makes the _best freaking turkey_ . Ever. And you, oh _you_ , had looked at me like you wanted to throw your wrench at my head because _you thought_ I was pitying you. And to a point, maybe I was just a little bit, but I was so sure that all your fancy ass gourmet cooking will have _nothing_ on dad’s turkey. You were working on some of Dummy’s panels that night. But you agreed, eventually, and you said: fine, I never turn away from a challenge, I like challenges, even if it is the turkey variety. You snooty bastard.” Rhodey chuckles, as the memory replays itself in his mind and the color from Tony’s face continues to drain as he listens to Rhodey.

“Well, y-you could have gotten that out of the real Rhodey by torturing him. I still think you’re an impostor.”

Rhodey pointedly ignores that.

“So. We drive off, in my beat up old beetle. The one with the turtle on the dashboard, you hated that fucking turtle. On the way to Philly, we hit something on the road-- you were so _scared_ !” Rhodey dissolves into peels of sudden uncontrollable laughter, and it’s like a dam breaking because Rhodey remembers the look of panic on the usually snooty, aloof and distant face. It had been an expression so _genuine_ because Rhodey had watched how Tony had bounced off a few inches off his seat and hit his head on the roof, only to land back on the seat scrambling against the upholstery and grabbing the door handle, freaking out and accusing Rhodey of running over a person, spewing nonsense about going to jail and quoting the law and its sentences in verbatim. Rhodey had forgotten how he too, had bounced off the seat. The pain on the top of his head hadn’t even registered at the time. “Holy shit you were so fucking scared!”

“That is not funny!” Tony snaps.

“You -- you made me drive back!” Rhodey says, reaching up and drying tears from his eyes. “And I told it was probably a raccoon or a beaver and I was right! You had gotten out of the car, took one look at the roadkill and then came back in. You never told me what it was then, but you eventually did, years later. It was a fucking raccoon!” Rhodey laughs a bit more and sucks in a deep breath to calm himself down.

“Are you done?” Tony asks, arms crossed and a flush high on his cheeks.

“No.” Rhodey shakes his head as he sits up straighter and leans closer, elbows resting on his knees. “We get there. You were overwhelmed, didn’t know what to do with yourself in a noisy house. But you ate dad’s turkey, and about a pound of mama’s sweet potato salad. You ate like boy starved.” Rhodey says, and watches as Tony’s eyes go _wide_ , alarm and his defense mechanism kicking into gear. “And then we played charades for hours. You were shy at first, but you settled into pretty quickly. You danced with my grandma Sherry and then agreed to play monopoly with my cousin George. You were a pretty mediocre player. Which I found hilarious.” Rhodey’s voice drops down and he looks down at the floor. “You ended up staying with me for both nights. And then, when we were leaving, Nana had packed you tubs of sweet potato salad and some leftover turkey, _because ain’t no girl want a man with so little meat on him, boy, you look like you’re going to fall over._ Ma made us turkey sandwiches for the road. And she packed an extra one just for you, with extra cranberry sauce. And then Dad – dad hugged you. And he said, _you’re all right, you better be showing your face at Christmas._ ”

Rhodey looks up at Tony and sees that he isn’t breathing, that he had gone completely _still_.

(Because the truth is, you remember how overwhelmed Tony had looked, standing by the doorway as your family had gathered to say goodbye. You remember how those now grief laden wiry arms had held a large back of stacked disposable tupperware, and Tony looking like he had not a single fucking clue how to even begin to say goodbye. You had watched how the sarcasm had failed to form, how the usual cheekiness had all but disappeared into thin air, and every wall of defense that Tony had managed to erect around him had come crashing down in that single few seconds. You remember how awkward he had looked, how _small_ , how his shoulders had hunched forward when Nana had given him a big kiss on the cheek. You remember how he hadn’t been able to meet your mother’s eyes, had flushed to the tips of his ears and when your father had embraced him, had cupped him on the shoulder and one side of his face like the retired military man that he was, you had stood there and watched _all_ of Tony get exposed to the world, because Tony had no clue what to do with sincerity, he had no clue what to do with words that are being directed at him with no strings attached, no conditions, not fine print, no ifs or buts. He had no clue how to behave in front of people who are genuinely _nice_ and want _nothing_ from him.

And on your drive back, you pretend not see how lost Tony had been, you keep your eyes on the road and pretend you do not notice Tony scrubbing at his eye with the sleeve of his hoodie. And when Tony says, “Your family is kind of cool.”

You had responded, “Welcome to the family. You’re stuck, now. No fucking way you’re getting _out_.”

You had watched how the smile so small and so earnest, so boyishly _shy_ , slowly stretch over Tony’s lips, hidden behind the sleeve of his hoodie that continues to rub over one eye. “I don’t mind. “ He had said.

And he loved them like they were his own.

When your Nana had gotten so ill, he insisted on getting her the best care in the country. When she had passed away a year before his own parents, Tony had stood there at the back of the funeral, behind large visor like glasses that you found out later had hid swollen red eyes because Tony, oh how Nana adored Tony. And when you had completed your military training and had left for your middle east tour and your father had gotten ill, when there was no way for your family to reach you, when there had been no way for you to be excused from your post and be by your father’s deathbed, Tony had done _everything_ in his power to set up a connection between you and your father, just so that you can say goodbye, just so that an old man can see his son who is thousands of miles away in a land so foreign for one last time. Tony had promised to look after your family like you had asked him, in your moment of weakness when Tony had dropped you off at the airport that cold day, ignoring all orders of bedrest.

You also know that the tipping point in him finally agreeing to dip into military weapons development had been that one combat mission you had been a part of that had _almost_ ended up in a bloodbath.

Because Tony had agreed to your old man’s wish that he’d watch out for you.

Because Tony fucking Stark had taken his role in being a part of your family _seriously_.

Because Tony fucking Stark had shown kindness a thousand times over to people who had shown him warmth and had wanted _nothing_ in return except for him to keep coming during the holidays with their son.

Because maybe, just maybe, it had been the only time Tony had felt that he truly is a part of something. And maybe, that genuine kindness is a debt Tony doesn’t think he can ever pay back, even when he already has a billion times over. And still continues to do so.)

“You remember what I told you that night? When you found out I got my posting assignment?”

Tony’s chin tilts a little upwards, an attempt to steel himself and appear strong, to always appear so fucking strong even when can no longer even _stand_. “You promised you’d be back.”

“And you didn’t believe me.” Rhodey says and shakes his head, bringing up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve the pressure there because damn, Rhodey had not expected to go through the motions of reliving old wounds that are still apparently _raw_ . Rhodey looks up and blinks the tears away, “Tones, _I came back_. And we’re still friends. I’m fifty seven, you do the math. That’s three decades and still counting, buddy.”

And there it is.

The same face Tony had worn that one afternoon after thanksgiving. Except it’s not being directed to Rhodey’s father.

It is being directed to Rhodey’s face.

“Let’s say I believe you…”

Rhodey reaches over and takes both of Tony’s hand, squeezing the paleness and trying to push some warmth into the very cold fingers. “I’ll tell you _everything_. I’ll show it to you, too. But let’s get you home first, okay buddy?”

\--

“Uhmm, Rhodey-cakes?” Tony sounds unsure, as he nudges Rhodey by the elbow a good twenty four hours later as they stop before a parked Dodge Charger; Tony is standing there before the passenger door, paused and looking confused under the shadow of his baseball cap on his head and donning on his own hoodie and sweatpants that unfortunately, fits this younger Tony very poorly. Tony looks like he’s drowning fabric. Rhodey’s Dodge Charger  “Is this your car?”

“If you’re wondering about the beetle, it got totaled by my cousin George.” Rhodey says, the car automatically unlocking. Rhodey pulls the driver’s door open and gets in. “Come on.”

“It certainly is an upgrade. Do all cars look like this…” Tony’s voice slows to a silence, as he slides into the passenger seat and studies the interior. “Good for you, Roro, you must get all the girls, now!”

“Yeah well,” Rhodey straps on his seatbelt and gets the engine running.

“You don’t?” Tony sounds incredulous. “Thirty five years and you’re still terrible at it?” Rhodey throws Tony a look. “So, I’m guessing no wife? I don’t see a ring…”

“Hey, come on now, you know I ain’t got time for that.” Rhodey looks up at his rearview mirror and then switches the gear into reverse. In under a minute, they are on the road. “You’ll get it once I tell you everything. And I know you’re one stubborn mother-fucker. You probably won’t believe half the shit I’m gonna throw at your face, and that’s okay. You can verify all that yourself with your own toys.”

“You seriously are _not_ seeing anyone.” Tony sounds incredibly disappointed.

“Have you not heard a single word that has come out of my mouth in the past, I dunno, one hour?”

“Dude --”

“Okay, okay, there’s this woman.” Rhodey turns to his right to see the exact face he knows Tony would be wearing all over his smug and nosy face. His Tony would have already know about the girl Rhodey ist rying to hide just by hacking into his phone and social media -- but this almost twenty-one Tony doesn’t know what he is capable of, doesn’t know the expanse of his reach, not yet anyway. So this Tony is wearing that face where one side of his lip is curled up in a dorky smirk, with a dimple hollowing and both eyebrows raised. It is the _stupidest_ expression Rhodey knows Tony had been capable of wearing. It is also an expression that Rhodey has not seen in so many decades. Seeing it now is so surreal that Rhodey can’t help the sudden huff and bark of laughter that rips out of his chest.

(You miss this. You miss this so fucking much.)

“This woman got a name?” Tony asks and Rhodey laughs a little more when Tony’s teeth start to show through the dorkiest facial expression in the entire world.

“Carol.” Rhodey finally answers. “Her name is Carol Danvers. Air Force. Can kick my ass to the moon and back and -- and she’s just…” Rhodey feels something catch in his throat, as he clears it and feels smile soften to fondness as he thinks of Carol’s smile, her laugh, or how soft her hair is and how it smells of sunsets and strawberry martinis, and how she can pretty much total an entire enemy base without so much as breaking a sweat. “She’s great.”

“Someone is over the moon~” Tony _sing-songs_.

“Hey -- “

“I’m glad, buddy.” Tony says and looks out the window at the stretch of the highway and looming towers of Manhattan in the distance. “Hell, I’m just glad you survived your tour. I didn’t think you were gonna -- lots of people die when they serve the freaking army. But you’re okay and now you got a girl that you obviously look like you’re crazy about -- that’s good. You know I always just wanted you to be happy and shit. You look happy.” A beat passes. “Well, you kinda’ sound happy. You were always such a sap.”

“Speak for your goddamn self!”

Tony turns to look at Rhodey all of a sudden. “Dude, you’re not taking me to meet my children and wife, are you?”

“No.” Rhodey says and it comes with a bit of an eyeroll. It comes out before he can stop it, too lost in the moment before he notices how Tony’s face slowly irons itself out to something a little more serious.

“Oh-kay, girlfriend then?” Tony’s eyebrow goes up and Rhodey says _nothing_. “Boyfriend?” Both eyebrows go up and Rhodey can see the tension starting to appear around the definition of Tony’s jaw line. “Huh. Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised. Do I still have the company, at least?”

“Yeah.” Rhodey looks away to stare back the road, easing to a slow stop as they approach a congested area on the highway. “Yeah, you do. You bought out most of your board members, as well.”

“Sweet. Good to know that I’m not _that much_ of a colossal fuck up after all. Is Obie still around?” Tony sounds almost _hopeful_.

(Tread carefully, Rhodes, tread very, _very_ carefully.)

“Tones,” Rhodey takes a look at the road and sighs, slumping in his seat. They’re going to be stuck on the road for a while and Rhodey knows that fielding questions isn’t going to stop. So he takes out his phone and places it on the dashboard, speed dialling Friday and getting her on the line; Friday knows what to do. He had called her earlier and prepped her for what he had wanted her to do when it comes down to him giving Tony a history lesson of his life. It is just unexpected that he is going to do it now, in the space of his car while stuck in traffic. Tony is still looking at the small projected screen on the dashboard to realize that Rhodey is having a bit of an internal freak out. “That’s all you by the way. The phone, the tech -- everything, that’s _you_. Everything that you imagined or talked about in MIT. You did it and so much more.”

“It’s so sleek and slim and…” Tony looks up to see Rhodey’s very sobered up expression; Rhodey sees alarm start to appear in Tony’s eyes, like he is bracing himself for the most horrid news. It’s the look that says, _what did I do, now?_

“I told you I’d tell you everything. I was gone most of the time, so I dunno what happened other than you’ve told me during my tour. So I’ll start from when I got back and you had officially just become the world’s leading military weapons manufacturer…”

Rhodey sees the color start to slowly drain from Tony’s face.

And he tells him _everything_.

\--

Steve had been waiting in the manor and had taken Rhodey’s advice in making his presence minimal just until Rhodey completes giving Tony a comprehensive “briefing” on everything that had transpired from the moment he had hit twenty-one up until the present timeline and why Tony is the way he is now. Steve had been waiting for his phone to ring in alarm, because there is so much to _tell_. He had been waiting for Rhodey’s call to tell him that Tony, after hearing all the baggage that had accumulated for decades, had been so overcome with _devastation_ or _hurt_ or _he got so fucked up_ _about how fucked up his life had been so far_ that Strange’s theory is true and now, he’s aged up to a familiar point they can _all_ work with.

But the call doesn’t come.

A text message does come through eventually, and Rhodey says: _he knows EVERYTHING; give him space._

Steve knows that they had entered the manor almost twelve hours ago and there had been complete silence throughout. He had heard footsteps going up the stairs earlier and a small peek down the corridor had confirmed his suspicions that Rhodey, exhausted and very haggard looking, had called it in for the night. Rhodey had not left his room since.

Steve spends the next few hours staring at the ceiling, and he must have fallen asleep because it is the distant sound of piano keys echoing throughout the house that makes him sit up slowly. Steve gets up and makes his way barefooted down the hallway, curving around the corner where he knows the piano rests under the stretch of the full glass wall and ceiling and right there, sitting on the bench and reading music sheets from a projected screen is Tony, with two bottles of wine beside him. Steve recognizes the song that Tony is playing, it had been quite popular the past few years, hitting record charts. The band name evades Steve’s mind because he is fixated on the wine Tony is drinking. ONe bottle is already empty, the other half full. Steve knows that after recovering, Tony shouldn’t even be _drinking_ and yet here he is, playing a somber tune _perfectly_ without missing a note, t-shirt hanging on his frame and doing nothing to conceal the sharp edges of Tony’s built. Steve knows what illness and _grief_ can do to a person and he knows, from Tony’s file, that _this_ is temporary. That eventually, Tony buries the grief so deep that the world had forgotten it had even been there in the first place.

Steve thinks that this is probably the last time he is ever going to see an honest, and true Tony Stark before he starts layering himself with impenetrable iron.

Steve takes a step forward to put a stop to the drinking at least, because _you just recovered, you just got out of the hospital, you shouldn't do this to yourself anymore,_ but freezes when Tony catches his gaze through the reflection of the glass and startles so hard, gasps so loud, that the wine bottles come crashing down on the floor, shattering and painting the golden tiles a crimson red.

Tony _swears_ under his breath, scrambling off the piano bench, the lid of the keys coming down with a loud and echoing slam that cuts through the silence of the house as Tony stands there, _frozen_ , just as Steve stands across from him with nothing but eight feet between them, hands up in a surrendering gesture, to disarm, to calm the panic that is crumpling Tony’s face.

And then then they just stand there in a standstill, gazes locked with neither of them moving. Steve waits for the rage, for the bitterness, the blame and the _hate_ \-- he waits for the punch to the face that he deserves, waits for the shock to morph to something more dangerous like a panic attack, waits for the words that will cut into Steve like a guillotine wire.

Tony blinks a few times instead, like he is grounding himself and bends down to start picking up the broken glass. Steve watches as he jerks his hand back sharply, because Tony’s hands are shaking, he’s _shaking_ , and he can’t seem to get a grip of himself, and Steve doesn’t even think, doesn’t even realize that he’s going against everything that falls under the umbrella definition of, _give him space_ , because he’s crossing the space between them and taking Tony’s hands in his, feels the trembles vibrate through his palms and clench around his chest, as the warmth of the bleeding wound starts to seep into Steve’s hand, too.

“Let’s get this cleaned up, first, okay? Let me help you.” Steve says and watches as Tony gives the very briefest of nods. It is so small that Steve almost thinks Tony hadn’t responded at all.

He takes him away from the broken glass and sits him on a stool in the kitchen, keeping his hand under the tap as Steve retrieves the first aid kit. He keeps Tony’s hand on the counter, over some paper towels as he goes through the motions of treating the cut, disinfecting and carefully folding gauze over the open pal. Steve is aware of how Tony’s eyes had not left him for a single moment. Steve can feel the piercing gaze boring holes into him. What surprises him is the lack of anger behind it, because Tony is just _staring_.

He feels the gaze raking all over his face, over his jawline, over the slight five o’clock shadow of his face, he can feel Tony’s gaze follow the lines that defines his features, around the corner of his eyes and over the curve of his lips. Tony studies him like he is trying to understand him, like he is trying to gauge him.

And Steve doesn’t dare look up from what he is doing, doesn’t think he has what it takes just yet to meet those empty and distant looking eyes that does not nothing to alleviate the forever present pressure on Steve’s chest that seems to have found permanent refuge there, somewhere between the ventricles of his heart.

“I don’t blame you.” Tony suddenly says, soft and distant, like it’s a realization. Steve pauses mid-wrapping of his dressing, and looks up at Tony in partial confusion, partial alarm, and a little too quickly to not betray how startled he trully is by the statement. “I don’t blame you for leaving me behind. You did what you had to do. A good man would have -- they would never leave their best friend behind. Ever. I don’t blame you.”

Steve feels the breath catch somewhere painfully in his chest.

(Because isn’t it the strangest thing how you had been waiting for _someone_ , or _anyone_ , to realize that yes, your decision hadn’t been wrong. Not truly. Standing up for the little guy, the victim, your best friend should never be made into a villainous act. And while it was personal, while it may have been seen as selfish, and to a point, you know that it was, you know that you don’t regret it. And now, here are the words you’ve been waiting to hear from the man that you had hoped would understane, finally out in the open. Here are the words you’ve been wanting -- you’ve been _fucking dying_ \-- to hear. These are the forgiving words you had hoped can somehow be the new foundation in rebuilding your friendship with Tony, it’s being given to you. You do not see anger, you do not see a lie, you cannot see anything but acceptance and maybe just distant resignation in the face of a man who looks like he is a lot older than twenty-one. That look on Tony’s face hits you hard because you know that look; it’s the look of _all hope_ just _dying_.

But you have your words now, don’t you?

So why, why goddamnit, why, does it not feel good at all?)

“I should have never left you behind.” Steve says, the words shaking past the cage in his throat, words he had never truly said out loud. Not like this.

He screams it in his dreams.

He screams it in his head, too, sometimes.

(But you’ve never said it to Tony. Never.)

“It’s all right.” Tony says, softly, and so goddamn forgiving. How can he sound so forgiving. “I would have left me behind, too.”

“No.” Steve is _firm._ The single syllable is heavy with the weight of realisation and regret. “I should have never left you behind. _Never. I should have made it work,_ **_somehow_ **.”

“You still would have, though. If you can carry only one, carry the one closest to you. It’s human nature.” Steve watches as the smile that tugs over Tony’s lips is small and forlorn. “ You and I both know that's not me, Cap. You can stop looking like a kicked puppy, now.”

“It's my fault.” Steve repeats. “It's my goddamn fault, why the hell aren't you even remotely pissed off about any of this?”

“Did you just _swear?”_ Tony sounds incredulous, and looks utterly taken aback. “I mean, dad said you were the absolute Boy Scout _and_ the personification of a _gentleman,_ but-”

“How can you be so fucking forgiving?” Steve _snaps_ , “You know what happened! Rhodes told you everything! I left you for dead! I lied to you! I _betrayed_ your _trust_! How are you okay with this?”

“Because it doesn't matter.” Tony answers, as easy as snuffing out the candle of STeve’s rage at being so easily forgiven. “What will it change? I'm not going to remember any of this, I don't even remember meeting you in the past few weeks.”

(What will it indeed.)

“I just-”

“Would you have stayed if I had forgiven the Winter Soldier? Would you have stayed if I hadn't signed the Accords? Would you have been able to turn your back on your best friend, the one and only person left that ties you to your world, your real reality, if I had told you that, I dunno,” Tony gives a small shrug almost helpless and looks up at Steve for the longest time, quiet and pondering. “Would you have stayed if you knew that I loved you?”

Steve doesn't move.

He doesn't seem to be able to breathe and he asks himself, _would you have stayed? If you had known how much Tony had loved you -- wait, but you knew; how can you miss it? He had gone out of his way to ensure you had a place to call your own, to make you feel like you are a part of this reality, he protected you, had your back and when it got so hard and at the risk of him ending up in prison, he came to you as a friend, not as an agent of the other side of the law. Even after everything, after you left him, he covered your tracks, he ensured that there is no data that can be used against you or Bucky. He isn't your best friend, your history doesn't go way back the way yours and Bucky does, but he had gone above and beyond for someone who has at most, spat on his face. Would you have picked him if he had told you, that he loved you? When he didn't have to because how can you be so goddamn_ **_blind?_ **

_(_ You knew, you just realised it too late. You're always late to everything, Rogers.)

“Yes,” Steve says it with conviction.

Tony’s smile is sad.

(He doesn’t believe you; he’s right not to.)

“That's a nice thought.” He shakes his head and finishes up wrapping the bandage himself. “It really is. You are a lot more attractive than the posters and film reels, Captain. Did I ever tell you that?”

Steve watches with something that feels like startled fascination as a warm shade of red starts to crawl up Tony’s neck, dusting over the tips of his ears and nose and settling over his cheekbones. It is so bizarre, how Steve is noticing the little things, like the mole on Tony’s right arm, just over the curve of the crook of his elbow, or how his right pinky is slightly bent and not quite straight like the rest of his fingers.

“Not like _that_ , no.” Steve says, _breathless._

 _“_ Hmmm. I noticed that I don't tell people a lot of things. That I grew up to be the kind of man my dad ended up being -- sarcastic, distant with a lot of dishonest honesty. No wonder people don't stick around, I sure as hell didn't around Howard.” Tony says, staring at his hands. “Knowing this now won't change a thing. Thank you by the way, for taking care of me and not punching me in the face. And being patient and letting me play in the pool and park for hours. And for not getting mad when I told you that I hated you. I don’t really hate you, that much should be _obvious._ But my parents marriage was suffering at the time and they had just shipped me off to boarding school, in an environment where I was at least five to six years younger than the kids in my class -- you can imagine, I never really fit anywhere, I was always on my own.” Steve sucks in a sharp breath, and it gets wedged in his throat, as the words rings familiar and hits home. “I had issues and so I blamed you and my dad’s obsession in trying to find you. I wasn't a very smart kid. I was a very pissed off kid.”

Steve doesn't answer verbally but gives Tony a bit of a shrug, watching as he words tumble out of Tony’s mouth. He listens to the tenors of his voice, noticing how Tony’s dimples hollows when he feels embarrassed, or sheepish - _how did I not notice that? It's one of the best way to know if he’s lying or being honest. How did I not see through this? Why didn’t I look closer?_

“You were a smart kid.” Steve says, almost rather lamely too, seeing as his tongue doesn't seem to want to work.

(Why did this Tony have to disappear? Why couldn't Tony be like this, forthcoming, honest, able to have a conversation -- why did this part of him had to be locked away?)

“Not emotionally no, I see the results now--”

“Do you think a part of you still loves me?” Steve suddenly asks, stopping Tony in his babble and making the young man _pause,_ regarding him.

“I hope so.” Tony says and looks back down on his hands. “You’re one of the few good things I have in my life. Even if you were, for the most part, just a poster and a memory of a dead man.”

Steve stands up sharply from his chair.

He had expected a lot of things from Tony, he had braced himself for anger, for accusations, for _blood_ , a full on fight, even. But he had not expected a _conversation_ , he had not expected Tony to tell him things that he had never been made privy of. Tony had always kept his real self incredibly private, even when everything about his life is anything but. Steve had not expected it to be this easy, to be this quick, _because how can you sit there and tell me that I’m some sort of symbol of good in your life? Can’t you see how even the memory of me have ruined your family? I’ve been used as your measuring stick, you just found out that I didn’t give two shits about leaving you behind, that I, this so called ‘good man’ that you think I am had picked your parents’ “murder”, that I had robbed you of your right to the team, that I had made you gone through_ **_so much shit_ ** _\-- how? How can you find it in yourself to even accept all this!_

“I didn’t know, Tony.”

(You didn’t know _anything_. You didn’t bother. You were too wrapped up in your own issues to try. You weren’t ready.)

“It's still not gonna change a thing. I probably won't even remember telling you any of _this_ later." Tony sighs and looks away momentarily only to look back up, hesitation peppering his expression. "Were we close?” 

“We were friends.” Steve answers and feels his heart plummet when he Tony frowns and looks off to the side.

“ _Just_ friends?”

“Yes.” Steve finds himself pressing his hot palms against cool surface of the marble counter. He can see the slight tremble in his pinky fingers; he is nervous.

“Did I ever hit on you?” Tony is looking up at him, and Steve doesn’t remember turning to meet his gaze, doesn’t remember when he had locked gazes with Tony, staring into the blank stare that is analysing, testing, _curious_. The flush on Tony’s cheeks are gone, now replaced by the still pallid complexion that only serves as a reminder of Tony’s grief. Tony is currently the opposite of Steve, because Steve feels the heat crawl up his neck. When he doesn’t respond, Tony breaks down his question, further fuelling his embarassment, “You know, ask you out, flirt, tell you how fine your ass is, how good looking you are, how you just make me wanna --”

“No!” Steve says, a little too quickly. He clears his throat and looks away. “No, you did none of that.”

“Huh. Isn’t that something.” Tony says, and that makes Steve looks up to see confusion. The confusion blinks away, as quick as it comes and Tony throws a grin at him, something Steve recognizes. It’s the same way Tony throws off the press. “Older me is a fool. How can he resist _you_?”

“Uhhh…”

“I mean,” Tony stands slowly stands from the stool and takes a step closer towards Steve, stepping into his space. “I jacked off to the image of you for _years_ , two to three times a day when I hit puberty. I had the biggest mother fucking crush on you. I used to imagine what it would be like talking to you, what you’d feel like under my hands -- most of all, I used to imagine what it’d be like to kiss you.”

Steve is looking down at Tony, mere inches away from him and as rigid as a board. The words are echoing in his ear drums, repeating itself over and over again, like a broken record that refuses to stop spinning. He can see how the dimple hollows, how the smile is hidden under the smirk that doesn’t quite fully form.

It is a look that is no stranger to Steve; he’s seen that look on countless of occasions, he remembers it and tries to recall the memory he associates that look with.

Tony takes another step closer and Steve’s hands shoots out to grip him by the shoulder, stopping him from getting any closer.

“What are you doing?” Steve says, soft and sharp -- he doesn’t know what to think, thoughts racing.

“Would you kiss me?” Tony asks, head tilting to the side.

“ _W-What_?” Steve feels his fingers clench around the curve of Tony’s shoulders.

“Would you?” Tony asks again, and Steve watches as something flashes in the depths of those eyes, something warm and bright, like a spark of gold that Steve remembers seeing what feels like a lifetime ago. It had been there during their first Christmas together, it had been there in the private moments he and Tony had shared together. The memory of it resurfaces, like the tide rising and a part of Steve wonders when and how did he forget _all this_?

(You didn’t.)

“You don’t know _what_ you are asking.” Steve says, voice _hoarse_.

“And you don’t have a goddamn clue what you’re doing, do you, Captain?” Tony says and the smirk is wider now, as Tony takes a step back and another before he turns around and his feet carries him out of the kitchen, leaving Steve to his thoughts that feels like quicksand.

The breath he sucks in is almost painful, sharp and shaky, as he leans against the counter heavily, one hand coming up to press against the center of his chest, where he can feel the rapid beating of his heart. Steve brings up the palm that is pressed against the flat surface and watches the tremors wrack through each of his fingers.

You remember your first birthday spent with the Avengers, how Tony had done the complete opposite of throwing you a large birthday party. You think of how Tony had kept it small, private and personal, just the people close to you, people you had worked with at SHIELD. You remember the cake, you remember Tony smiling at you from across the room at the cheesy Captain America shield cake, how his teeth had peeked out from between his lips when Clint had started to butcher the birthday song by calling you an old fart. You remember smiling back, remember how _both_ dimples had hollowed and how Tony, had bit his lower lip for a moment, before the smile had turned to a laugh that had melted away with everyone else’s laughter; Clint’s bastardizing any song is always funny.

You think of your first Thanksgiving and how Tony had handed you the knife to carve the turkey for everyone, “Let dad do it, mommy is tired from all cooking -- and by cooking, I mean, choosing the turkey from the menu.” Tony had winked at you, teeth peeking out from under his lips once more, and you remember watching as he bit the corner of his lip, and looked away to throw a retort in Natasha’s way, just as you had taken the knives from him.

You remember him showing you your new tactical gear, remember Tony during movie nights, after successful assignments, you remember all your arguments and the moments when Tony had been pacified, or the moments when you had both reached an agreement -- you remember all your fights, all the words, and you cannot think of a single moment where Tony had been looking away from you. Even at the very end, when you had turned your back at him, he had been still watching you walk away, watching as your back had disappeared into the white embrace of the cold snow.

Apparently, that look isn’t associated to just one memory.

It’s associated to _most_ of his memories to Tony.

The realization is enough to weaken Steve in the knees, as he feels himself sit heavily on one of the stools, both hands pressing into his eyes.

(Fuck.)

\--

“I imagine,” Tony says, as he shoves the remaining of his waffle into his mouth, washing it down with his coffee. It is ten in the morning and they are sitting together in a diner downtown, dressed down to blend with the crowd, with a baseball cap on their heads. “Seeing as Steve Rogers is America’s golden boy --”

It had been Rhodey’s idea to take Tony out, to show him how much the world had changed in real time as opposed to pictures and videos through a projected screen. Tony had spent a good portion of the week mostly in his workshop going through his successful projects, analysing them and mostly keeping to himself. There had been no mention of their conversation together and Tony hadn’t had a drink since the one and half bottles of wine Steve had managed to ‘distract’ him from nights ago.

Thinks had been relatively quiet, like the calm before the storm.

“Don’t say it, Tones.” Rhodey says, without skipping a beat as he takes another sip from his coffee.

“-- that he must taste of either apple pie _or_ cherry pie. Do the girls you kiss ever confirm that, Cap?”

Steve just _stares_ at him.

There is no way he is even going to attempt to participate in this conversation.

No goddamn way.

“Come on, Tones, leave him alone you’re gonna make him cry. He’s too polite.” Rhodey says, and shrugs when Steve throws him a _look_ over the rim of his coffee cup. “He’s not used to this side of you --”

“I bet if I give you a blowjob, your jizz would taste like pie.” Tony says.

And the coffee that comes out of Steve nose is _painful_.

Steve can feel the tears burn behind his eyelids, can taste the bitterness of the coffee somewhere between his wind and food pipe with a lingering aftertaste that is absolutely disgusting and horrid, just as he watches Tony’s lips start to stretch in a _smile_ \- _smirk,_ the corner of his lips curving up and eventually pulling back completely to reveal perfect teeth. Tony holds his hand out at Rhodey, who _sighs_ like this is _not_ a strange thing, slapping a one hundred dollar bill on Tony’s palm.

“You’re a part of this?” Steve asks from behind a napkin, looking at Rhodey with utter disbelief.

“Maybe I should have warned you.” Rhodey genuinely looks torn between trying to be amused or looking sorry.

“Oh, pssht -- live a little. Besides, I think our boy scout will be thinking of about having his cock down my throat tonight.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Tony, I am eating -- “ Rhodey’s form drops on the plate.

The flush that _paints_ Steve’s face is about as bright as the jar of strawberry jelly sitting in the corner of their table. “That is an inappropriate thing to say at a breakfast table, young man!”

“Oh but you’re thinking about it~” Tony fucking _sing-songs_.

And Steve isn’t even able to form a comeback to that. Because the images that flood his mind comes unbidden, fuelled by his imagination that is uncalled for and Tony is _laughing_ , his head is thrown back and he is _laughing_ his ass off, arms curling around his middle.

“It is not that funny.” Steve says, trying to keep himself calm and not reach forward and smack Tony upside the head, being the little punk that he is.

“Oh but Cap,” Tony says, once the laughter dies out to just a broad _smirk_ , confident and cheeky, as Tony leans over the table and _whispers_ , “I can make you feel so, _so good_.”

The utensils rattle on the table as Steve gets up so fast and walks out of the diner, just as Rhodey raises his hand like a grade schooler with the most resigned look on his face, while Steve tries to get that _smirk_ out of his head, because as much as Steve doesn’t want to admit it, he’s not used to this kind of attention from Tony, because it _is_ getting under his skin, it is making him uncomfortable, it is making him blush like a good church-boy, because _goddamnit, Tony._

“Excuse me, excuse me, could we get the bill please?”  


TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried writing this chapter. So many, many times. A hundred times oh my god, I can’t handle this. UUUUUUUUUUGH


	5. （˶′◡‵˶）

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. I may have missed some typos/mistakes/blabla. This is an evergreen story and I am continuously re-reading and editing typos as I go. Tags to be edited/added as i go along and cough up chapters.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER. SO MANY GODDAMN REWRITES. SO MANY SCENES I HAD PLANNED ALL SCRAPPED. SO MANY THINGS THAT JUST WON'T FIT ANYMORE. UGH I AM FRUSTRATED AS FUCK!

（˶′◡‵˶）

Bucky isn’t sure what to expect.

He had been flipping through the photographs in his phone, mostly selfies taken with almost-five Tony and all of them forwarded to him by either Steve, Clint or Sam; they are all kinds of pictures taken at the park, at the fair, on the swings and see-saws – his favorite is the one of Tony sitting in one of the duck shaped floating ring Sam had picked up from Walmart, while Bucky had pushed him around in the pool. Flipping through the photos now makes Bucky realize how he had _a lot_ of pictures. Bucky had forgotten for a moment too, what he had done, when he, much like Steve, had been so absorbed by the idea of trying to just let the kid have fun; Steve’s enthusiasm at the time had been infectious that Bucky hadn’t been able to resist poking in on the fun too. And in those precious few days, for just a fleeting moment, he had forgotten how the bones on Howard’s face had crunched and gave way under his fist, or how Maria’s soft skin and throat had yielded under his grip. Maria had on her Chanel No. 5 that evening, and the necklace she had on had snapped free under his crushing grip.

Bucky had forgotten all that for just one blissful moment, because after a very long time, he had felt comfortable being around someone else.

(Too comfortable, so comfortable that you had forgotten _what_ you are.)

Almost-five Tony had looked up at him with no judgment and when he had not been busy holding Steve’s hand, Tony had gravitated towards him. There had been a day at the park, one of the many trips, where Tony had been looking at the duck pond, trying to stand on the tips of his toes in order to see over the railing and shrubs. It had been before Tony had found out about the truth of his parents. Bucky remembers approaching him from behind and easily picking him off the ground after the second time Tony had wobbled and had almost fallen to the side, _almost_ smiling at the small squeal of delight Tony had given him then, just as Bucky had settled him on his shoulders.

“Do you think we’ll still be friends when my parents come back?” Tony had asked.

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“No one really sticks around. Everyone is so busy with the businesses and stuff.” Tony had responded, and Bucky had felt little hands rest on top of his head along with the curve of a small chin. “I don’t want you all to go away. I’m gonna miss you if you go away.”

“We won’t, buddy.” Bucky had responded and remembers feeling a little stupid for making false promises like that because that is one of the first few things they teach you: promises are about as worthy as their return value.

Bucky knows what the return value is for this one: _nothing_.

(Because it’s not real. None of it is.)

Tony had stuck out his pinky finger then, beside Bucky’s left cheek. “Pinky promise?”

Bucky had wrapped his calloused pinky against the soft one and had tilted his head up to the sky to look at wide brown eyes and a mop of hair. “I promise.”

You see, there is a reason why you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep. Because right after that, Bucky had kept himself distant, had made the conscious decision of not getting too close because that afternoon in the park had made him realize just how dangerously close he had gotten. That had been his wake up call. After that, he lets Steve take the reigns, left the troubles to Rhodey and Clint, choosing to be a shadow and limiting all verbal exchanges. And yet despite all that, Bucky had never been too far away, even now. He had seen the brunt of the anger, had seen the hate and had seen the hope flare in Tony’s eyes when he had told him that they think he is worth something. And when Steve had been too rooted to the spot and emotionally unable to cope with that anger and that hate, Bucky had stepped in.

And just as easily, had stepped back once the situation had been under control.

(It’s better this way.)

The thing is, Bucky does not really think he had been speaking for Steve back then. To a point, perhaps; maybe his intention had been to stick up for his best friend, to clear his name and give him a bit of a boost just like how he had always done so in the past. But a part of him thinks that he had mostly been speaking for himself.

Because it had been nice, hadn’t it?

Just like that time when Tony had been so focused on you, had rebuilt and redesigned your arm, had tried to look at you beyond the veil of anger, of hate and of bitterness. It had been nice when he had been so accommodating with you, the way he had somehow found time to cater to your needs when you had recklessly damaged your arm. He had no problems getting so close and personal with you, so much so that even you had believed, at the time, that maybe, just maybe, if circumstances had been different, maybe you would have had –

(Stop right there, soldier. That’s beyond your scope of jurisdiction.)

“Nervous?” Carol asks, and Bucky startles out of his thought and quickly presses the home button on his phone, exiting the photo gallery.

“This entire thing is messed up.” Bucky says, turning to look at the stretch of Stark manor’s manicured lawns, as Carol turns into the driveway, driving passed the gates.

“If it makes you feel better, I’m nervous as hell.” Carol says, “It’s like meeting the parents. Though, J tells me that Tony has been… pretty chill about things.”

“When was this?” Bucky asks, turning to look at Carol just as the car pulls over to a stop by the front door.

“About four days ago.” Carol’s seat-belt buckle clicks and as she releases it and hum of the automatic hand-break sounds off. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure. Just be your charming self. J tells me that _this_ Tony is quite the charmer when he wants to be. There’s your heads-up.”

“Thanks,” Bucky mumbles, just as the engine goes off and steps out of the car, quickly tugging a glove over the metal hand. It is almost a nervous gesture.

And after all that ruminating, he still isn’t sure what to expect.

He is sure that whatever ‘charm’ Carol and Rhodey speaks of, there is no way in any reality will any of that apply to him.

Suddenly, switching places with Rhodey does not seem be the brightest idea in the book. After the last round of aging up and the disaster that had been, Bucky doesn’t think he should be anywhere near Tony. He did not want trouble.

(And yet, you didn’t resist or fight this at all. You _want_ to be here. You truly do. Because Tony is one of the very few people who had made you _feel something,_ who had walked on eggshells anyway, had gone the whole mile _for you_ during this entire transition.)

Rhodey greets them at the door and whatever smile Carol had on her face drops because Rhodey looks a little glum, looks a little unsure. The second thing Bucky picks upon stepping into the house is the sound of muffled music coming from the east wing, where Bucky knows Tony’s workshop is.

“Steve’s outside by the pool.” Rhodey says, and _sighs_ when Carol steps in to wrap her arms around him.

Bucky doesn’t linger and quickly removes himself from their private moment, bypassing the kitchen and stepping past the sliding doors. He spots Steve sitting on one of the benches, staring at his hands. Bucky takes the bench beside him.

“What happened?” Bucky asks, and braces himself.

“Nothing.” Steve says, shaking his head. “Nothing happened. That’s what I find strange.” Steve gives a bit of a chuckle and looks up to meet Bucky’s gaze. Bucky notes the confusion there, notes how off kilter Steve is, like he does not have any sort of solid footing. “He talks, he studies, he goes through his projects, he’s fascinated by the future, by his tech, he jokes, he laughs, he _flirts_ , good god, he _flirts_ , worse than you.”

“Hey.”

“I’m serious, Buck. It’s like _nothing bothers him_. Even Rhodes doesn’t understand it. He’s tried talking to him, _I’ve tried_ and he just -- he’s forgiving? Does that make sense? Like just easily accept all this?” Steve snaps his fingers. “Just like that.”

Bucky cannot stop the frown from coming to his face as he hears the distant pound of the music come to a stop and silence swallows the manor grounds.

“Maybe he’ll change his mind when he sees me.” Bucky says, and watches as Steve tries to dissuade him from that thought, but doesn’t get very far because Friday materializes behind them and tells them that Carol and Rhodey are waiting for them in the eastern drawing room. “Come on, let’s go see what he’ll do once he meets his parents’ killer.”

“Come on Buck, you know it’s not like that.”

“I still did it, Steve. Saying it isn’t doesn’t make it any less real.” Bucky says, and it comes out a little sharper, a little harsher around the edges than he had intended it to be, but it puts a halt on Steve’s pacifying, his excuses, and his justification for his actions that had been beyond his control.

There is laughter in the drawing room and Bucky finds himself slowing to a halt a few steps away from the ajar door. Steve bypasses him and steps in first. Bucky hears Tony telling Carol that she is too good for old-man-Rhodey, that she must consider modelling, that she must be under some sort of spell because _good god, Rhodey, you’re right, she’s amazing._

Carol’s laugh tapers off to a greeting as Bucky listens to her talk to Steve. That is when Bucky steps out of the shadows and into the light of the room, and that is when he watches the smile on Tony’s face _falter_ , like a stutter in a well-oiled machine, as he turns to look at him, _really look at him_ , from top to bottom and the look on his face momentarily freeze. Bucky watches as the lines on the clean shaven handsome face freezes, watches it catch somewhere in between surprise and _fear_. He doesn’t miss how Tony’s left heel shifts just the tiniest bit backwards, before he makes it look like he’s turning fully to face him. He doesn’t miss how he reaches backwards with both his hands to hide the tremble in his fingers. The movement had been fluid, almost _perfect_ , for a civilian, a boy with little to no training on how to deceive and _hide_ his emotions with measured gestures. This is where Bucky picks up immediately how the entire act is a farce. Because the _smirk_ that tugs up at Tony’s face is almost candid, camera ready. Tony hands move to go into the pockets of his baggy sweat pants, and granted Tony looks a lot better than he had a week ago when they had taken him to the hospital; but the bags under his eyes, the slightly off tint around his lips and the out of place flush on his cheeks are little hints that that betray that he must have been drinking in secret.

“Well, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. It’s so weird meeting you in the flesh when you should have been dead. Watch out Steve Rogers, you got competition~”

Rhodey gives an exasperated sigh, “Tony, don’t, it’s --”

“Why the fuck not?” Tony asks, a little sharp, just as the smirk widens to full on smile to reveal his teeth, but does nothing to reach his eyes. “You know it’s true. _James_ was quite the heart-breaker back in the day, I’m told - that’s what I call you, don’t I? _James_? Not Bucky?”

Bucky flicks his gaze up to Rhodey and watches as his back straightens, eyebrows knitting. He catches the look on Steve’s face and sees partial alarm there, sees how the tendons shift in his arm, like he’s ready to stop an attack.

“Yeah.” Bucky thinks back to their time in Nevada, and blinks at the memory, of Tony standing but a breath away from him, when he had seen the fear he had been trying to suppress, when Tony had been _trying_ to be _okay_ around him. When Tony had been _trying_ to just _move on_. He remembers the Christmas gala in London, and how Tony had looked at him with an expression that had belied no fear, no apprehension, but something softer and something that Bucky can’t quite seem to put a finger on, let alone _forget_. “I asked you to call me James. My military rank has been redundant for a long time.”

“And I agreed?” Tony asks, and Bucky shrugs in response. “Just like that.”

“I guess.” Bucky answers, and feels the weight of the frown start to settle on his face, tugging his brows downwards, as his lips settle into a grim line.

“Well, _I’m_ going to call you Sergeant. Kinda’ _rolls_ off my tongue a lot easier, don’t you think? Good to meet you, Sergeant. We’ll be hanging out for a while, I’m told. You’re familiar with the house, and --”

(This is bad.)

“Actually, I won’t be staying -- “

“Oh, _please do_.” Tony says, closing the distance between them and tilting his face up to meet Bucky’s gaze. Bucky doesn’t dare move as he feels the breath in his lungs _hold_. “I _insist_.”

Tony takes a step back and then heads for the door, calling out a pizza order for dinner and leaving the room all together, bare feet patting over the marble floors and disappearing down the stairs.

Bucky turns to look at Rhodey then, and his confusion must have been all over his face because Rhodey just shakes his head. Rhodey doesn’t look like he _knows_ what to _say_.

The gesture brings Bucky no comfort.

\--

The one thing eleven year old Tony and almost-twenty-one Tony had in common is that they like to spend time analyzing, studying and spending most of their days alone and keeping to themselves. Bucky cannot say that this Tony is hell bent on completely ignoring them per se, because Tony shows up for at least two meals a day. And in those two meals where they sit in front of each other’s faces, Tony is content with filling the silence in between with either archived news chatter of Billionaire-Tony-Stark’s life or him talking about how weird and eerily brilliant he thinks his future-self is.

Bucky doesn’t even know what Steve had been going on about with Tony flirting but by the time the week had been over, Bucky had experienced the full brunt of it when Tony had made a direct pass at Steve, telling him about a wet dream he had of him the previous night in absolute great detail. Bucky doesn’t dare move from his seat, in hopes that the attention wouldn’t come towards him, opting instead in watching as Steve morphs into all varying shades of red while telling Tony to cut it out, that is not true and that making up things like that is highly frowned upon even by current society and that it isn’t something a gentleman would do.

“Well I’m no gentleman, apparently. Have you seen the news?” Tony _grins,_ “Bet you hot-stuff here would appreciate a wet dream about _him._ ”

“I’d… rather you didn’t.” Bucky says, shifting slightly because this is one of the most awkward moments he had to be put through. He can already feel the prickling heat flaring slowly at the back of his neck, like a slow blooming flower. Buck hopes that by ducking his face, that heat would not be so obvious on his cheeks; he had no desire to give Tony more ammunition for his games and teasing, nor does he crave to be at the receiving end of it. Unlike Steve, he isn’t sure he can sit through it. The old Bucky might have had the patience for it -- he isn’t sure this Bucky had it in him, especially if it’s coming from Tony.

“Aww, and here I thought we had a connection during our time spent in Nevada.” Tony puts on a frown on his face, like he’s hurt, the little ass-punk.

Bucky sees it and doesn’t and tells himself he shouldn’t be surprised that Tony _knows_ this when his eleven year old self had the brains to understand and figure out his own security protocols. And without much of a warning, like lined dominoes tipping forward and collapsing, the memory of Nevada drops behind his eyelids vividly – he remembers the moment the rocket had made contact with the glass, shattering it to a billion pieces and tearing through the facility. He remembers flying across the room and the rain of concrete, smoke, dust and seared metal from the impact. He remembers the sight of the bright blue sky so high above and then collapsing beam that had obscured that view, how it had connected against metal and how the glow of Iron Man’s eyes had been as bright as the scorching white light of the sun. He remembers how his throat had felt raw from the angry shouts at Friday, when Tony had activated his safety protocols with little to no care for his own safety, when Bucky had been his ultimate priority.

And then the blood – Bucky remembers the blood that had sizzled and scorched under the hot iron when he had cauterized the gaping wound on Tony’s shoulder, he can still taste the crispiness of that heat at the back of his throat, so bitter and so vile, like his guilt and regret and everything he can never undo or take back, that Bucky is forced to set his mug down, as he looks at his half eaten sandwich on his plate.

(You still hear his screams at night, loud and desperate and _pained_ \-- _Jesus, I’m so sorry_. You can still feel the heat of it against your palm from where you had muffled it, how the tears had pooled around the curve of your fingers – sometimes, it’s all you hear amidst the crunch of bones under your fist and the soft perfumed flesh under your grip.)

Bucky looks up to meet Tony’s razor sharp gaze that cuts into his. Had he been anyone else other than the Winter Soldier, Bucky would have looked away. But he holds the gaze just as much as Tony stubbornly does.  And just like those times, Bucky hears the world slow to a hush, as he watches each flutter and shift of Tony’s eyelash move as he blinks, watches the depths of brown and flecks of gold make way to pools of stretching infinite black, as Tony’s pupils dilate in sync with his mounting nervousness. Bucky knows that his heart rate would be racing by now, probably banging against his ribcage with his palms getting clammy -- Bucky knows what that feels like, he had held those hands too, felt it in his, felt the _thumpthumpthump_ of his rapid pulse rate. He knows that just like back then, Tony’s breathing is _measured_ , calculated, slow and long. The slight and very distant squeak of fingers gripping his the porcelain mug reaches Bucky’s ear, and he knows that Tony’s trying _not_ to be afraid of him.

Always, always _trying_

Just like back then.

“Did we?” Bucky asks and watches as Tony sucks in a slow breath, lips parting just the slightest bit with a tremble.

(He’s terrified.)

“I've seen the plans and prototypes for your arm, for that implant in your brain -- a _lot_ of work there. Why else would older-me be so invested on you?” Tony counters.

(In all honesty, that’s something you’ve been wondering about, too. Because Tony had been keeping his distance with Steve but not necessarily with you. In fact, hasn’t he been more accommodating with _you_? You tell yourself it’s the arm, one of his best works, that he must be invested in. It isn’t you. Why would he be invested in you, of all people?)

Bucky forces his shoulder to move in a shrugging gesture; he can already feel Steve’s gaze burning against the side of his head, like he’s questioning him silently, trying to gauge _something_ out of all this. “He said he wanted to make more money.”

The laugh that leaves Tony’s mouth is startling, and it _almost_ jerks Bucky backwards with its suddenness.

“And you _believed_ him?” Tony sounds incredulous, as if the words that had just rolled of Bucky’s tongue is the joke of the century.

It might have well been.

(Truth is, you _didn’t_ want to think about it, because thinking about Tony’s intentions would fuel a hope you didn’t want to keep burning. You didn’t want to think beyond what had been put on the table, you didn’t want to think beyond the held gazes, the rage and the courage to stand tall before and the small smiles. You didn’t want to look past the accommodating the gestures, the foolish bravado, because a man like Tony would only want to move on, he had bigger things to worry about, bigger fish to fry than to waste his time with someone as broken, used and damaged as you. Besides, if you had known his true intentions and it had been exactly as you had predicted, wouldn’t you have been disappointed at how insignificant your role might have truly been worth? After all, Tony, in his own twisted, morphed and asshat-way inspires hope just as much as Iron Man does when he flies the skies. It had been almost inevitable that you would feel hope too -- why wouldn’t you? The arm, the impanted chip in your brain -- _the hell did he call it? Oh right, ADPJB - Auditory Device to Protect James Barnes._

How can anyone _not_ hope?

You didn’t stand a chance.

So instead, you just don’t think about it, so you don’t to get attached. You clamp down on the memory, you put a cork in it and shove it to the very back of your mind where it belongs, because that attachment there is dangerous and you shouldn’t waste more of Tony’s time than you already have. After all, you’ve taken everything from him; you should at least leave him to his time.

Or so you tell yourself just so that you can “sleep” at night. Dealing with the nightmares and your guilt and the blood is a lot easier than _hope._ )

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I? He hasn’t given _me_ a reason not to trust him.” Bucky asks, and this _time_ , he makes the mistake of looking at Steve.

Steve who is now looking at him with a frown on his face, with his lips parted in what Bucky assumes might be disbelief, might be surprise – but he chalks it off as confusion. Because everything about Nevada, and anything about Tony is not something Bucky willingly open up about to Steve.  So this, Bucky understands, must come off as a surprise to Steve.  Bucky doesn’t even miss the slight flinch on Steve’s face.

(You don’t talk about Tony because it’s better that way. If you don’t talk about it, then the comforts of the hope you feel that has become synonymous with Tony Stark doesn’t exist, either.)

“Funny you should say that.” Tony says so dismissively and drops the crusts of his toast back on his plate.

Something about the dismissal makes the hackles that Bucky doesn’t realize he had, rise. Something in his jaw hardens, as he feels his teeth grind, feels the joins in his jaw lock and release, lock and release, one, two, three. He says _nothing_ though and pointedly picks up his mug and takes a sip of his now cold coffee.

“He means well, Tony.” Steve says, _trying_.

“Hey, if future-me can find it in his mangled, diseased and broken heart to forgive _him_ and _you_ , there’s no reason _I_ can’t, right? I’m just _trying t_ o _understand_ what future-me saw.” Tony says with a tone that has a little too much bite to it. “Because as far as I’ve seen, you’re a liar and a hypocrite. Which you’ve kind of already made up for, still making up for -- kinda? I’m not saying you _haven’t_ or _aren’t_. And future-me seems to think the world of you, even though you kinda don’t? Siberia and all. Which I don’t blame you for, per se. I am kinda’ developing a love-hate-something-but-more-hate for future-me?  And _you_ ,” Bucky looks up then and sees the gold flecks in the sea of brown _flare_ with _something_. “well, you took everything from me.”

“I did.” Bucky _agrees_ and holds his hand out grabbing Steve by the arm to keep him in place, to stop him from resisting that statement. To keep him quiet.

“You’re the puzzle I can’t quite figure out.” Tony says, and it comes quiet. “I don’t get you.”

“There’s nothing to get.” Bucky says, and drops his gaze back to his hand, watching the gleam of the light on the metallic surface. “Stark just wanted to move on, probably. Maybe he was just sick and tired of the past. It’s understandable. I get it, if that is his gameplay.”

“Do you?”

“ _Do **you**_?” Bucky counters and looks up with something cold in his gaze. “You sit here, acting like all’s well and shit, like it’s _funny_ , when you and I both know it isn’t. I see it; you’re no different from Stark. _I scare you_ , don’t I?” Bucky stands, towering to his full height and bulk, hands planting itself on the counter. “Yeah, I killed your parents –“

“Buck!”

“—brainwashed or no, they were still my hands. Yeah, I remember their faces, I remember your mom’s necklace breaking off, I remember her goddamn perfume – Chanel number five, am I right?” Bucky watches as Tony stands up too, and there it is, the blazing _anger_ , the _hurt_ , glowing in the surface of his eyes like gold flecks of a dying sun. “I _remember_. I remember _everything_. So, _what_ are you going to do about it?”

Bucky sees the punch coming from a mile away, from the moment Tony scrambles over the countertop and grabs him by the collar of his shirt, just as he holds a hand out to Steve in a silent gesture to _stay back_. It connects solidly, heat flaring in an involuntary reaction all across Bucky’s face as he goes with the motion of the punch. He catches most of Tony’s weight, goes down with the force of it willingly until his back thuds against the marble floor and Tony brings down another fist. It connects harder, and there is a faint crunch somewhere that doesn’t come from Bucky’s face, heat flaring in his nose as he feels the crimson gush start to trickle from his broken nose. He looks up and sees the ocean in Tony’s eyes, sees the flush over the crests of his cheeks and the _grief_ – but no fear.

Not a single ounce of it.

The lack of it is surprising and it must have shown all over Bucky’s face with the way he inhales so suddenly, sharp and quick from surprise, because the loud and sudden slap of Steve reaching out to grab Tony by the elbow to stop the next punch from raining down is what makes Bucky blink. It’s what makes him sit up slightly from the ground, keeping himself held up at the straining position -- Tony doesn’t move, arm still raised but body frozen. Steve releases his grip and Tony’s arm falls limply to his sides.

And how the rage _burns_ , flushing Tony red and washing away almost all traces of his alcohol poisoning. Tony is breathing fast and hard, like he had just run an entire marathon and back. His fingers is shaking by his sides uncontrollably, like the beat of the wind against metal panels. Tony can’t hold himself together -- not like this.

“Hey,” Bucky says, soft and gentle as he reaches up to cup Tony’s face, the same way he had in Nevada, when he had told Tony, _I’m not Steve_. “I know you hate me, and _that’s okay_. You can hit me, you can hurt me, you can say anything you want, and I’ll agree because it won’t be a lie. It’s the truth.” Tony blinks and Bucky watches the tears fall, fast, large and hot, like it’s been waiting to come out all this time. “But I want you to know that _Tony_ saved my life. Everything that I am _now_ , my rights, my privileges, my _freedom_ , my ability to _choose_ – I owe it to him. So you can hate me all you want, I’m okay with that, I’m never going to hold that against you. But I am _not_ going anywhere. I _will_ protect you. I _will_ keep you safe. And there is _nothing_ you can do or _say_ that will _change that_. Ya’ hear me?”

(Because when you asked me if I was worth saving, you had given me hope when I was too scared. And when I had hope, when I learned eventually, how to breathe, I swore that I’d watch your back from everything and anything that may do you harm. Because had it not been for you, I’d be tucked away in the cold and not knowing anything else except fear, hidden and never to see the light of day again; it’s safer that way, after all. I would have been safe, because sure, Steve would make sure of that. But I wouldn’t know what it’s like to walk in the sun -- that’s all _you_ , do you even know what you’ve done to _me?_ What you still _do_ to _me_?)

Tony peers up from his lashes, and this close, Bucky can feel the puffs of air from Tony’s attempt to measure his breathing. He can almost taste the strawberry jam from Tony’s toast earlier. He watches as the tears fall and his thumbs swipe them away, brushing over warm and flushed cheeks. It had been an involuntary gesture, something Bucky realizes after he had done it and it is that small gesture that sets off alarms in his head, loud and blaring and spinning -- he doesn’t get much time to wonder as he watches Tony lashes flutter once in a blink and feels the impact of Tony’s palms against his chest, _shoving_ him back down on the floor with every ounce of viciousness he can manage.

And then Tony is gone, footsteps vanishing around the corner and moving down the hall towards the eastern wing of the manor.

Bucky takes one look at the expression on Steve face, that sad, apologetic, and accepting face and feels nothing short of self-disgust for himself. It also comes with a sudden slam of irritation that Bucky can’t quite explain. It easily dissolves to disappointment that he directs more at himself for letting it get this far.

(Overstepping your boundaries – you forget your place, soldier!)

“Looks like inflicting emotional pain doesn't work, huh?” Bucky says and tears his gaze away at what he interprets as disappointment twisting all over Steve’s face.

“Buck…” Steve sounds resigned, _tired_ even.

“I should have just stayed away, Stevie. I meant what I said -- but I don’t think it’s worth putting the kid through so much _repeated_ grief.” Bucky says, getting to his feet and walking over to the tap to rinse the mess off his face. It had stopped hurting a minute ago.

“He’s mourning. He’s _trying_ to make sense of two realities and if Strange is right --“

“Well, it didn’t work.” Bucky says almost bitterly as he takes a wad of paper towels and dries his face.

“This Tony says a lot of things, he likes testing the boundaries of people, much like our Tony, so he’ll say anything and everything to get a rise out of you. And you did provoke him, Buck. Was that necessary?”

Bucky falls silent and stares at the damp paper towel in his hands. His mind is racing, conflicted with a hundred thoughts all funneling into one. Bucky knows that the best thing to do at this point to can the whole thing and walk away. Talking or _attempting_ to talk when he’s like this is not the smartest thing in the world to do. So the paper towel is crumpled to a small ball in his fist and turns to walk away, deciding then and there that discussing any of _this_ further is not something he wants to do.

Or should do.

(Hope is dangerous; you knew this.)

Bucky heads for the doorway, ready to can it, except his heels turn midway and he is looking Steve in the eye and asks the question that still bothers him to this day.

“Why did you give it all up for me?” Bucky asks, sudden and almost accusatory.

“Buck, come on -- “

“Don’t.” Bucky says, even sharper. “The more time I spend around everything you had, the life that you had, the _people_ , I get what you chose them, I don’t blame you for choosing them. They’re great people. And Stark is -- he is -- “ Bucky sucks in a deep breath and the memory of Tony fixing his arm floods him, as does the memory of him waking up and feeling sick to his stomach on Thanksgiving night after his surgery and Tony had been at his bedside, eating the smelliest and largest turkey sandwich in the face of the earth like the ass that he is. Bucky still remembers the slight smile there, lingering around the corner of Tony’s lips and hidden behind the bite he had taken off that sandwich. “-- how can you give all that up? I get it, he’s not the easiest of people to deal with, but he’s got his heart in the right place. I would have been happy to know you had a life for yourself, because isn’t that why we joined the war to fight in the first place? To save our country and our people, so we can _end_ the goddamn war and go home and a fat load of shit that was worth, huh? The world ended up getting fucked over anyway and honestly, there are moments where I wonder, all those years, when I _could, before the wipes_ , if bleeding for my country and ending up _like this_ , had been worth --”

“What the _hell_ are you trying to say --”

“-- was I worth it? Was I worth saving?” Bucky asks and watches as Steve gets a stricken look on his face and just as he predicts in morphs to indignation.

“Yes!” Steve _snaps_ , bites the syllable out, teeth flashing in a bit of a snarl.

“Then why am I having such a hard time seeing that?” Bucky responds, neutral, and almost gentle, no bite to the words; there is nothing in his tone except acceptance, coming out like a hushed whisper. He realizes the viciousness of his emotions, how it suddenly _flares_ to life _now_ of all times, of all moments and in front of all people. It is still rearing its ugly head and Bucky fights to calm himself, shakes it off with a shake of his head, trying to dismiss the entire conversation.

“Adjusting to something normal wasn’t going to be easy. It isn’t, not when it’s almost a century later. Sometimes even I’m not sure. It’ll take time, lots of it; it’s only been a year, Buck. It’s not supposed to be easy!” Steve says, and Bucky watches the temper rise there too, how it dusts over his cheeks like crimson sand and makes the blue and greens of his eyes _gleam_ like the ocean under the scorching heat of the sun. “It isn’t!”

“Staying here is a mistake. Getting attached is _goddamn_ mistake.”

Something flickers in Steve’s gaze and Bucky catches how Steve takes a bit of a step back, like he hadn’t been expecting the words. A frown forms on Steve’s face, like he’s unsure of what to make of whatever conclusion he must be forming in his head -- Bucky can’t make himself care at the moment.

“This _isn’t_ about Tony, is it?”

That gets a huff out of Bucky, and he shakes his head. “Everything, apparently,  _is_ about Tony, Steve.”

“You sure about that?” Steve asks, taking a step forward, and another and reaching out to take Bucky by the shoulder. “Buddy, talk to me. Please. What’s going on?”

Bucky looks up at Steve and shakes his head, just shakes it like he wants to clear the memories and looks up to find an expression he does not particularly enjoy seeing on Steve’s space – he did not like it back then, he still doesn’t like it now. That helpless face, the always trying so goddamn hard face.

(Goddamnit.)

Bucky forces a twitch of a smile. It probably doesn’t look very convincing; he doesn’t care.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m good.” Bucky _lies_ , reaching up to clap a hand against Steve’s shoulder before stepping away, his exit cutting off whatever words of resistance had at the top of his tongue. Bucky tosses the paper towel ball into the trash and walks out of the kitchen without a second look back. He mutters something about switching over with Sam, and disappears down the hallway, up the stairs and into his room.

Bucky ends up pacing and pacing and pacing and when the rising tide of that _something_ in him wouldn’t stop, when the pacing gets faster and faster and he starts to feel a bit like a caged animal, unable to fight the clawing chasm in his chest, Bucky picks up the phone and calls Sam to arrange a switch.

He should not stay.

The sooner he leaves, the better everyone will be.

(Hope is a mistake.)

\--

Tony makes himself scarce after that day and Bucky had been given the pleasure to be a witness to that for a solid week. It had been his luck that Sam had gone with Scott to liaise with their team in Singapore. He had not been able to find a replacement for himself.

Tony does not leave his room or his workshop and when Steve had gone to look, he had found Tony reading through codes and programming and fully immersed in his work and study of his older self’s projects.

Tony doesn’t engage with either of them.

And neither of them talks about what had happened that day.

(You think it’s a godsend, not having to revisit that inexcusable moment of weakness. You’re glad Steve doesn’t bring it up.)

If Bucky hadn’t been sleeping much before, the recent events and conversation had robbed him of what little he had under his belt. He stays mostly awake, keeping his ears open and watching the surveillance feeds spread out all over his ceiling. Mostly he stares at nothing, gaze flicking between one empty corridor to the other. It is the same visuals every night, with Tony reading and reading and doing nothing but reading.

Except tonight.

Tonight, Tony isn’t reading. He isn’t flicking through screen after screen. He isn’t even typing or scribbling on his whiteboard. Bucky knows he’s trying to crack program codes, he can see the basics of it, but most of the numbers and formulas are lost to him. Tony hadn’t moved a muscle for the past hour and a glance at the time stamp in the corner of the surveillance screen tells Bucky that it is two in the morning. At first, he wonders if Tony had fallen asleep where he’s sitting.

But then Tony moves and he gets up from his chair. He is on shaky legs and bumps against his table, knocking a few of his books, rolled up plans, and tools on the floor. Bucky sits up at that, the screen adjusting to the level of his eyesight. He watches as Tony exits the workshop and makes his way towards the kitchen. Then the cabinets open and close, slamming with a bit of ferocity when Tony doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Tony isn’t even _trying_ to be quiet or sneaky.

It’s when Tony leaves the kitchen for the basement that Bucky gets up; a quick glance at Steve’s room tells him that Steve had _finally_ fallen asleep after staying up for more than forty eight hours straight. Bucky doesn’t bother to alert him at the moment, following after Tony on his own instead.

There is nothing in the house that Tony doesn’t have access to, no lock he can’t turn.

So it isn’t surprise that he finds Tony rummaging through the manor’s stash of very expensive and very rare aged wine. When they had emptied the pantry, the kitchen and the study of all the liquor they can find, it had also crossed all their minds to empty this particular cellar, too. Rhodey’s access, while broad, doesn’t cover all grounds in the manor, apparently.

Tony is sitting on the floor, hands shaking as he struggles to work the corkscrew. Twisting it seems to be difficult because his hands keep slipping. Tony curses and throws his head back against the wooden rack behind him so sharply, that several wine bottle rattles from the ripple of the impact.

Bucky takes the first step forward, moving to crouch beside Tony.

“Don’t say a word, please.” Tony says, and makes another attempt at the bottle, this time successfully managing to pop it open. The cork bounces off the wall, rolling away somewhere, a loud and echoing noise that drowns the sounds of their breaths for a mere moment. Bucky stops the hand that brings the neck of the bottle up, feeling the heat of Tony’s skin sear against his.

It makes him wonder if Tony is running a fever – it makes Bucky take a closer look. He sees fatigue, dark circles, and red spider veins spread out all over the whites of Tony’s eyes. He sees a slight flush, sees drying lips and the tiredness that lines Tony’s shoulders, forcing him into a slouching posture.

“It’s not worth it.” Bucky says quietly, softly.

“Is it?” Tony asks, and Bucky sees something that isn’t quite fear, but not quite grief either; yet neither is completely absent. It is a strange cocktail of emotions, something that looks like confusion and disbelief, maybe a bit of hysteria, a bit of resignation.

“You can’t drink your problems away. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Seems like a pretty good idea right now,” Tony says, and reluctantly releases his hold on the wine bottle as Bucky takes it, placing it a good arm’s reach and a half away from where Tony is sitting. “I figured Extremis’ coding, by the way. The whole “memory wipe” as Rhodey calls it. It isn’t so much as erasing as it is reprogramming. Dropping a veil over a memory patch might be a better description. Bet you know everything about that, doncha?” Bucky doesn’t answer, his gaze dropping once more at the open palms Tony had on his knees. The shaking is very obvious now, almost uncontrollable.

Bucky’s gaze flicks up to meet brown eyes that now, in that very moment, shows _fear_. But it isn’t directed at him, not this time. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

Tony swallows and tilts his head to one side, and the smile doesn’t quite form, because it drops just as quick as it even begins. “What if you’re scared of yourself?”

(When you’re scared of yourself, you shut door, lock yourself away and switch off under a blanket of ice inside a fortified container. When you’re scared of your memories, your knowledge, your _ability_ and you don’t trust yourself, you give up your right, your privileges, and your choices. When you’re scared of yourself, you become a threat to everyone around you. You shut the door. You don’t look back. And you hope that you are eventually forgotten because monsters like you don’t deserve to be remembered.)

“I’m still trying to figure that one out.” Bucky says, gaze flicking to the side, unable to really meet Tony’s gaze.

“Rhodey told me that I erased my mind because I was afraid of seeing things that weren’t really there.” Tony suddenly laughs. “I don’t know what I saw, or how bad these -- these _hallucinations_ were. If they were dreams, if they only came at night, if they were frequent, or not, what the triggers were - I had to look through thousands of petabytes worth of info and surveillance to conclude that I grow old to go _mad_. And I don’t know _why._ ” Tony’s hands ball into fists, gripping at the fabric of his sweatpants. “I didn’t erase my memories of Ultron, of Obbie or of any of the shit from the Civil War or Afghanistan or the Mandarin, Loki and New York. I took away my _past_. Everything before my twenty-first birthday has been sealed away into a black bag and I have no access to it. Nor will I seek access because the programming reroutes that shit to some -- some pathetic excuse of a memory flowchart, basic skeletal info that is set to run in a continuous loop -- _dear god!_ “ Tony brings his hands up to his chest, inhaling and exhaling rapidly, blinking rapidly as he tries to _focus_ and speak, fingers balling into fists against the fabric of his shirt

“Hey -- hey!“ Bucky grabs Tony by the face, and focuses on the pattern of his breathing. “Calm down, breathe, _breathe_ , easy, easy -- that’s it, deep breaths, okay?” Bucky pushes Tony’s hair back, feeling cold sweat on his palms as the trembles intensify and Tony’s hands move up to Bucky’s shoulders, fingers digging into metal and flesh and against fabric as he tries to calm himself, ground himself. “That’s it, calm down, buddy -- it’s all right.”

“It’s not all right. It’s not -- you should have _seen_ it, the new codes in Extremis, the _conditions_ \-- I won’t remember _anything_. Not the funeral, not Jarvis or the beach house, or dad’s office and -- and Mom’s perfume -- her favorite tea set, her favorite necklace. Rhodey’s _family_ , Nana and the old man. I won’t even remember _Steve_ , or _you!_ Not the stuff that _matters_. Not even Rhodey! And – and if you think about it, if you look around, that’s all I have _left!_ ”

Bucky doesn’t think twice and pulls Tony against him hushing him, as if not repeating those words would make it any less true – you know what it’s like, living an existence with nothing more than a handful of information about yourself. You know what it’s like to wake up with faded bits of memories that makes you question reality, makes you reach out through the haze of white and snow, trying to claw at anything that may tell you _something_ or _anything_ before you had been made to kneel and take orders. You had days where you recall thinking – no, you recall _feeling_ that pitting sensation of _familiarity_. It had almost made you go mad, when you had heard the name _Bucky_ for the first time. It had made you ask a thousand questions and it had _hurt_ so much, that the undergoing the _wipe_ had been merciful.

There is nothing more painful than a man remembering his life before the present, the bits of it that seems distorted, the parts that don't make sense, that don't add up.

There is nothing more difficult than trying to fill the void that is soaked in blood and seeping with regret.

You don’t come back from something like _that_ intact.

Not completely.

Bucky sees it every time when he looks at Steve.

He sees it every day when he looks at his reflection in the mirror.

(Because when you take away your roots, when you rip out and bag what the things that ground you the most, you have nothing holding you back. You become _limitless_ and the world should – the world _must_ fear men without limits. Because they wouldn’t know when to stop.)

And now, he _feels_ it in the trembles that _wracks_ through Tony’s frame, feels it in the suppressed sobs that Tony is trying so hard to keep down. Bucky can’t tell him that it will be okay, that it gets better, that sometimes starting over, hoping for a better tomorrow may just be what men like them needs – it’s all a lie, a mantra of words to help you get by another day.

There is no _truth_ to it.

“That’s not true. Rhodey is still here and he ain’t going anywhere. Pepper and Steve. _Everyone_. Hey,” Bucky says and pulls Tony back, his metal hand coming to rest at the back of his head while the other presses against Tony’s cheek, giving him a gentle tap to get his attention. “You got _me_.” Tony sucks in breath then blinking a few times. “I know what it’s like and it’s not good. It’s not easy. It’s doesn’t get any easier. No, no, listen to me – _listen_.” Bucky hold is firm, trying to keep Tony anchored from the storm that is threatening to pull him to the bed of the ocean.

“ _I’m scared.”_ Tony says, the syllables so soft, as if saying those words are sin. And for someone like Tony Stark, it must be – Stark men are never scared. Stark men are meant to be strong, an example.

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” Bucky whispers. “You don’t have to be. I won’t let nothing happen to you. I promise.”

(Promises are only worth their return value, solider. Are you forgetting things already?)

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix this.” Tony says, shrugging weakly, and the smile the tugs around the edges of his lips is shaky, a piss poor attempt to _be_ okay, still _trying_ to be Iron Man, even when there is nothing of the armor left to begin with.

“You’re Tony Stark. You always figure it out.” Bucky presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes. “I got you, okay?” When he opens his eyes, he finds Tony looking at him, studying him, gaze dropping to follow the lines of his face, his lips. “No matter what happens.”

And there, just the tiniest bit, is the flare of hope that Bucky knows too well is dangerous, is toxic, it clouds the senses and makes you do stupid shit like _smile_. It makes the gold in your eyes shine, even when your gaze drops as you blink, those words hitting him. It makes the corner of your lips twitch up, like it’s remembering how to work for the first time after a long period of mourning loss and grief. And you’re noticing the simple things, the small things, like how your heart suddenly starts to hammer behind your rib-cage. You feel Tony’s heart race too, under your finger from when your hand slowly slides down the side of his face down to his neck, to steady him, you think and finally put distance, to step back and move away because this is dangerous. This is so fucking dangerous, what the _fuck are_ you doing, soldier!

But you’re too slow.

And Tony leans in just the tiniest bit, mere centimeters, and the gesture is likely involuntary, likely something that results in him trying to adjust himself, to stand up, to get back to the drawing board and figure the mess of his adult-self, start trying to lay the ground work in fixing the mess of his future that stems from far too many regrets, far too many wrong decision that had been made out of desperation and grief.

The soft brush of dry lips against Bucky’s lips feels like _fire_ , so startling in its burn and suddenness, so gentle in its caress, so personal and so utterly vulnerable that Bucky feels like someone had yanked him backwards when he jerks from the unexpected gesture. The brief feel of it doesn’t last because Tony is tipping forward, and Bucky doesn’t have but seconds to catch him, pushing him back against the rack and reaching for his face, tapping him against the cheek and getting no response.

Bucky doesn’t hear himself when he calls for Tony’s name, when he gives him a brief shake and feels the heat _blazing_ under his skin. He is briefly aware of telling Friday to get Steve, briefly aware of open wine bottle tipping to one side, wine sloshing and bottle rolling somewhere on the floor, spilling red everywhere. Bucky picks Tony up in his arms and races up the flight of steps, taking two at a time and finds Steve rushing down the stairs, looking over the banister, _alarmed_.

“Stevie…”

Steve takes _one look_ at Tony, and comes down the rest of the steps. He puts a hand on Tony’s forehead and Bucky _watches_ as the color drains from Steve’s face. “Get him upstairs. I’ll get Strange. Start trying to get the fever down.”

Bucky doesn’t even dignify that with a response as he runs up to Tony’s room. He sets him down on the bed. The motion jostles Tony and it’s enough to make him roll his head the other side, a soft noise sounding out from the back of his throat. For a moment, Bucky watches as Tony’s eyelids flutter for the briefest moment, and Bucky grabs on to that like it’s a lifeline, picking Tony’s head up gently in his hand and trying to shake him awake, get him conscious again.

“Hey, hey, Tony, are you – “

Bucky doesn’t get to say much after that, because Tony’s eyes open, glazed over and circles around it darkening. Bucky watches as the color drains from Tony’s face and black jagged lines start to appear from his chest, crawling all the way up and past the collar of his t-shirt, like the spread of a jigsaw puzzle, going up his neck and reaching the sides of his ears. Bucky watches as the bright blue glow starts to illuminate around the center of Tony’s chest, blazing bright first, like a star about to die, before it slowly fades and fades and it vanishes completely. Bucky is ripping the shirt off Tony’s chest, just catching the last bit of the glow of the arc reactor fade to nothing, sinking into Tony’s chest, rims of metal and wires and the mesh of technology dissolving into open flesh, as Tony’s chest splits open to reveal the cavity in the center of it, shrapnel floating and fading to nothingness.

Then it happens, the invisible force of _something_ exploding _outwards_ , throwing Bucky off his stance by the bend and against the dresser, where the mirror shatters and falls as sparks sizzles around in a protective sphere around Tony, white and gold, crackling like thunder in a storm.

Steve is at the door, and he’s saying something but Bucky can’t hear him because Steve’s voice is drowned out by the sound of the noise being _ripped_ out of Tony’s throat, raw and _pained_ – and it’s like watching the horrors of everything Tony had gone through unfold in seconds. The impact erupts again and it sends Steve and him backwards again, the doorframe cracking under Steve’s grip and the plaster and concrete denting under Bucky’s back.

And Bucky watches what transpires before him like it’s a time-lapse, watches the bruises and wounds appear and disappear all over Tony. He watches how his body shrivels up, flesh sinking at the peak of his disease, lines of age and pain sinking into his face. Except those dents and imperfections fill up, too - new skin, new flesh, color and vibrant, healthy and strong, regenerated muscle, regenerated organs – it’s like watching time move forward and then backward because Tony’s form now, suspended in the air, is no different than the form he had during his thirties.

Then it all _stops_ and for a moment there is nothing there except the hush and flash of the spell that continues to fizzle in and out of visibility. When nothing else happens, when the room remains still, Bucky carefully peels himself of the wall and floor, carefully stepping over glass and chipped marble. He makes his way towards the bed, where Tony remains suspended in the air, floating like he’s lost in space.

He and Steve exchange looks and when Steve carefully reaches out to touch the field surrounding Tony, the spark illuminates the room in an almost blinding flash, an invisible force lashing out and sending them skidding across the floor a few feet backwards.

A minute passes and then another, and then another and in the stillness of it all, Bucky feels his knees go weak, and a part of him wonders if this is fault, if his words and his actions, his inability to just stay the fuck away, had proven Strange’s theory. That maybe, just maybe, he had indeed inflicted something so strong that it had been the catalyst.

Bucky can still feel the phantom warmth under his palms, the salty heat of tears against the curve of his thumb, the soft brush against his lips, the look of that _smile_ on that sad, sad face.

(You’re not gonna be forgetting _that_ anytime soon, are you, you sick little shit.)

It’s all he can think about.

It is Friday’s voice that cuts through the stillness, telling them that Stephen Strange continues to be completely unreachable. It’s her drawing their attention by flicking on local and foreign news channels that is reporting breaking news in Hindi, Nepalese, Pashto, Urdu and Tibetan about a ‘storm phenomenon’ that had overtaken almost half of the entire stretch of the South East Asia, puzzling multiple astrologers worldwide.

And there on the screen, is the same crackle of gold and white thunder, much like the field surrounding Tony.

Within the hour, the calls start to pour in – Rhodey, Pepper, Natasha, Sam, Clint, Bruce – their caller ID’s popping up all over the room like ads on a browser. The ringing remains muted, until Friday asks Steve who he would like to respond to first.

Steve doesn’t answer.

Because he’s too busy looking at Bucky.

“What happened?” Steve asks, voice thick, and soft, and heavy like he’s torn between looking disappointed and worried. Bucky watches as Steve swallows words that he wants to say, more questions, more words, more a lot of things.

“I don’t know.” Bucky says, and looks at his hands closing his eyes, the words feeling like the truth, because he’s not sure. “I don’t know…”

His own answer, Bucky thinks, feels like the greatest lie.

  
TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna say that after 2 rewrites, this chapter ended up being... well this chapter. Out of everything I've written for this sequel, I like this chapter the most out of all the five that is out so far, primarily maybe because I feel more comfortable writing from Bucky's POV than I am with Steve's POV -- I have NO CONFIDENCE in writing Steve, whatsoever. This entire fic, I feel, cements that. It is a constant struggle and the shift between writing is almost dramatic now that I've reread Rebirth AND all of the chapters so far. 
> 
> I am a little conflicted by this. I am also a little apprehensive, a little bit disheartened. And it does NOT look like it's going be LIGHT anywhere anytime soon. Kill me please.
> 
> Anyway, I dunno. To be honest, **I'M STUCK! DO I EVEN AMEND THE TAGS AT THIS POINT!?**
> 
> T_T
> 
> Thank you for reading and reaching this far! Your reviews are a constant encouragement.


	6. o(TヘTo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. I may have missed some typos/mistakes/blabla. This is an evergreen story and I am continuously re-reading and editing typos as I go. Tags to be edited/added as i go along and cough up chapters.

o(TヘTo)

Steve is kneeling in the familiar gray of Siberia, feeling the snow billow through the openings of the bunker walls. It melts against his skin, trickles down his cheeks like the tears he cannot and does not get the opportunity to shed. He can feel the cold seeping into his tactical gear, sinking into his flesh like a million needles, spreading all over his bones and joints. The blood on his temple and the corner of his lip is frozen, wounds drying and clotting, as are the bruises under all the blue, red and white.

The wounds don’t hurt.

The cold does.

As does the body that lies before him, still encased in red and gold armor, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Tony doesn’t move because he can’t, the armor already dead and the glow in chest as dark as the shadows lingering around the corners of the bunker. The whistling of the wind through the openings does nothing to mute the slow and very shallow breaths leaving Tony’s slightly parted lips, misting into the air. The shield is on the ground, gleaming under the poor light managing to permeate through the bunker’s opening, forgotten and ice building up around its edges, just like how the ice also settles around Iron Man’s joints.

Steve doesn’t know how long he remains there, watching Tony’s armor freeze, watching as his eyes slowly drop lower with each passing minute. He doesn’t know where Bucky is. He thinks Bucky is nearby, but as the cold settles and wind outside grows harsher, doubt starts to settle too, until Steve is forced to conclude that Bucky isn’t there.

(Maybe he never was?)

Steve closes his eyes, feels the cold gripping his lungs now, like clawed fingers as sharp as the cutting wind that blows stronger now, louder and angrier. He feels his head drop a little lower, feels the upper joints of his neck and spine crack just the tiniest bit with the gesture, and he thinks, maybe this is it, maybe he is just doomed to remain in the ice forever, an outdated relic, nothing but a frozen ideal for humanity to strive towards to. Maybe if he had never been found, no one would have gotten hurt. Maybe if his existence hadn’t made itself present in this century, in this timeline, the world would have been a better place. Too many regrets, too many wrong choices, too many things done that keeps you awake at night, too many people who he had called friends hurt in the line of fire. The thoughts turn in his head in a never ending chain, circles and circles, round and round: the losses, the echoes of the gun salutes, the funerals he had missed, the deaths and rows of silent tombstones, the blood soaking into his hands and seeping under his fingernails, the hundreds of goodbyes he had missed to say and the one goodbye that had really mattered. The ghost weight of Peggy’s casket still lingers around his shoulders, as does the echo of her words. The sound of the clicking railway and _that_ one European blizzardy winter still rings at the back of his head, just as the scream of his best friend sinks and disappears into the white abyss down below, drowned by the sounds of the fiery train engine. And that one look that had spoken _volumes_ that one Christmas morning, and the words **_I believe you_ ** staring back up at him from a small LCD screen, that to this day, means the _world._

The memories are about as cold as the body freezing before him, as preserved as his had been when he had gone down in that plane.

It comes with an overwhelming feeling of sadness, just deep and silent and lost, distorted by the resonating echoes of his memories and missed moments, tens and thousands of missed moments, just like the storm outside.

Steve _exhales_ , slow and long, and opens his eyes to look at Tony.

Tony, who despite his shortcomings, his arrogance, his misguided way of communicating about the things that _matter_ , had always been his pillar to hold on to when nothing else in the world had made sense. Tony, who had shown him technology, had introduced him to the ways of the twenty-first century, who had explained the purpose of social media and hashtags. Tony who had thrown party after party after goddamn _party_ , Christmases, Thanksgivings, Labor Days, Fourth of Julys and endless birthdays and sometimes for no reason at all, always taking it twenty steps ahead just to give Steve a _chance_ at this new future, an opportunity to understand, to help assimilate into this foreign society that is so unlike his own, the very future Steve had bled and fought for and had lost so many men and women to all those decades ago. Tony who serves and protects and had stood behind him on so many things, things he had taken for granted sometimes it seems, and things that he should have done better to notice.

(But you did notice; you just didn’t look twice. Too scared, too absorbed by the past to see the future.)

Looking at him now, lying there on the icy floor, you remember that day in New York, when your heart had felt like lead when you had given the order to close the portal. Because you understand _sacrifice_ , more than anyone, you understand the duty and obligation to protect the present and the future at the cost of men willingly laying their lives for the same reason. You remember staring at the sky, with the heat _burning_ behind your eyelids like the goodbye that refuses to form at the tip of your tongue.

And you remember the _relief_ , how the shaky breath that had filled your lungs had felt like at the sight of the gleaming red and gold appearing in the sky once more, how it had lifted the weight off you, like it had never been there.

That feeling though, _that_ haunting loss, it never truly leaves you, does it?

Because it comes back with a _slam_ , as you watch Tony free fall.

It _crushes_ when you had ripped the mask off the hud of Tony’s face, when you your hands had trembled over the glowing heart that at that moment, had failed.

It never leaves you, even after Tony opens his eyes and you see the flash of fear there, glowing like the blaze of dying embers. You will not forget it – _how can you? --_  even when Tony opens his mouth and throws words to distract, words to hide that _fear_ , words that garners irritation, amusement and sometimes exasperation from those around him, all an act to protect himself because _now_ , you understand, that Tony is _always_ protecting himself, because he can’t afford to lose more than he had already lost. The constant fear to hide – you get it.

(You're hiding too.)

And a part of you understands it, because for you, you understand how easy it is sometimes to hide behind Captain America’s cowl and shield, behind the blue red and white uniform that hides the little, sickly, skinny guy under it all. You understand the need to conceal your own fears because no one can know about your hesitation, your own insecurities – you’re Captain America after all, the man with a plan, always with a goddamn plan.

Except it doesn’t quite work now.

Whatever this “plan” is.

And you’re left with just looking at the form of the man who had tried so _goddamn_ hard for you, had proven over a thousand times that he is your friend, that he cares for your well being, all that teasing, the jibes, the bickering, none of it matters because it’s just all a front. Because at the end of the day, Iron Man _always_ had your back.

Tony Stark had been – _is_ your friend.

(And maybe, he had been one of the few, who had looked past the shield and cowl.)

Steve’s hand reaches out, shaky in the cold, stiff and frozen like the loss he feels in the ever growing chasm in his chest. Tony’s forehead is as cold as death, and whatever warmth Steve had left in him, pools around his eyes. The tears do not fall. It never does, once more remaining frozen against Steve’s eyelids. Steve watches as Tony’s gaze shifts from the ceiling, eyelids flutter so slowly, so _weakly_ , until his gaze focuses on Steve. It is glazed over, like the dirty ice underneath them, stained in the grime of their fight and destruction, marred with red from their wounds and bruises, and all their shattered trust and the remnants of their broke relationship.

(It _hurts_.)

“If I told you that I loved you, would you have stayed?” Tony asks, soft and tired. So, _so_ goddamn tired.

Steve feels the shaky breath fill his lungs then, like a thousand needles sliding down his throat and filling his chest, sharp and _painful_.

Just like that day in New York.

Except this time, keeping the devastation off his face is hard. Trying to smile is even harder, and the effort twitches all over his face, struggling between the lost chances, the missed opportunities, his shot at something he had, once upon time, may have wanted with a woman who time had taken away from him. It forms and _falls_ , dragging down Steve’s eyelids with it where, for the first time in a very, _very_ long time, the tears _finally_ fall.

(If I told you that I _want_ to love you back that I’m sorry I’m too late, I’m sorry I’m too slow, I’m sorry I didn’t know any better, that I would wait for as long as it takes, no matter what, would you still give me another chance?)

When Steve opens his eyes, Tony’s gaze is glazed over and unseeing, his slow breaths ceasing to mist in the cold air.

Steve opens his mouth to say _yes_ , too late, always _so goddamn late_.

What comes out instead is a _screaming_ exhale that doesn’t stop.

\--

Steve jerks awake with a _sharp_ inhale at the sound of the door knob turning and barely gets but a few seconds to compose himself, straightening his posture  on the chair and bending forward to rest his elbows on his knees, carding a hand through his hair in a gesture to ground himself. He can feel the tremble in his fingers against scalp, as if he is still freezing in the winters of Siberia.

The dream takes a while to fade, and Steve can tell from the sound of the quieter footsteps that it is Bucky who had stepped into the room, bringing him a cup of coffee that he sets down by the nightstand. The smell of it is almost noxious.  

They had cleared most of the damaged furnishings from Tony’s room, had swept the broken glass and dust and chipped marble off the floors, setting things right. When the storm had suddenly cleared from the South East Asian belt and the unexplained swirling and amassing dark clouds and flashes of lightning had disappeared, Tony had dropped four feet from the air onto his bed, and had remained unmoving ever since, fever _burning_ under his skin.

Strange had _managed_ to respond to _one_ of the calls, sounding _ragged_ and _tired_ , and had told them it’s all under control, that for now, until he is _able_ to get to Stark manor, they _must_ keep Tony contained. That he’ll get there as soon as he can.

Steve had stopped counting after forty eight hours.

They had not heard a word from Strange since then. Rhodey had gone to check on Strange himself and found the place empty and devoid of any occupant.

(It’s always the waiting that kills, doesn’t it?)

“Thanks,” Steve _finally_ says, rubbing his palms against his face in a sweeping gesture, as if the pressure against his eyelids and cheeks would push away the grief he can still feel behind his eyelids and stop the chasm from growing wider in his chest.

“No word from Strange, yet…” Bucky says, his voice tapering off.

It's an ice breaker. Steve knows this.

Steve looks up and finds Bucky looking at Tony’s sleeping figure, nestled amidst the expensive cotton sheets and thick duvet. Like this, Tony looks incredibly peaceful, far too young than his real age, not a worry or stress line in sight, like no weight of the world rests upon his shoulders and against his chest. Like this, no one can even tell that Tony’s skin burns hot to the touch with a fever that is unnatural, a result of the warring timeline adjustment that is caused by the unstable spell on this physical body.

It makes Steve wonder if Tony looks like this every time he sleeps.

It is the look on Bucky’s face, though, that gives Steve’s thoughts pause. It is the soft lines on his face, hidden under the shadows of his loose hair, the gleam of suppressed emotion that Steve knows far too well. It is the look one wears when they want something, _yearn_ for something that they cannot quite have anymore because it’s so out of reach.

(You know it well because you’ve felt it on your face so many times.)

“Buck,” Steve starts, wanting to ask, wanting to say _something_ . But the words die and as always, Steve keeps still, swallowing anything remotely _emotional_ all the way down. Steve ends up tearing his gaze away, looking at his hands instead. He feels the ghost of shame and disappointment hover over him for a reason he cannot explain, peppered with a little embarrassment and self-pity.

It’s the first thing Steve _says_ in the wake of the hours since Strange’s call.

He had remained _silent_ as the dead since then.

“I lied to you.” Bucky says barely above a whisper.

Steve shakes his head, not looking up from his hands, the cocktail of emotions gaining heat and momentum along with the hard pound of his heart under his ribcage.

“We all lie.” Steve says, “For the greater good, to sleep better at night, to the people that matter. To _ourselves_ .” The silence that falls between them is thick, and when Steve looks up Bucky meets his gaze. “None of it matters now, does it? I’m tired of it.” The admission, surprisingly, feels a lot like release, like a chord that been wound around him, holding him prisoner for so long finally snapping free. “Peggy once said that sometimes the best thing to do is to start over. I want to. I’m trying to. But I am not that good at it, I realize. I’m slow, never quite fast, even back then, after the serum. You were always… _quicker_.”

(Look at that -- are you finally speaking for _yourself?_ )

Something flickers over Bucky’s gaze, forcing him to blink a few times, and look away, eyes falling over Tony’s face. “Wanting something doesn’t mean you deserve it.” Bucky says. And the words makes something stiffen at the back of Steve’s spine, forcing him to straighten in his chair, fingers involuntarily _squeezing_ around the curve of the armrest that the wood under the fabric _creaks_ ominously. “It’s not too late.” Bucky turns to meet Steve’s gaze head on, unflinchingly, whatever flash of _something_ that had been there is forcibly swallowed down. “You can still fix this. Before this happened, he said that the memory wipe isn’t so much of a memory wipe but a blanket over a patch of memories. If you can find a way to undo that, if you can _convince him_ to remember his _past_ , then maybe…”

Steve sucks in a breath, and the dots connect then. Steve watches how Bucky’s face remains impassive, and yet his eyes are bright, burning with _something_ that makes Steve slowly rise to his full height. Steve _knows_ that look.

He _understands_ it far too well.

(Because it is something you have suppressed over and over and _over_ again, never allowing it to grow, never quite mustering up the courage because you were always small, remained small -- even back then. You had been too busy just _trying_ to do the right thing that you had spent every waking moment suppressing what _you_ want, what _you_ desire, what _you_ long for, thinking that all is lost, what is the point, your eyes never looking forward, not when it comes to anything that relates to _you_ anyway.)

“Maybe _what_?”

“Maybe you’ll finally understand that if you want to _really_ start over, sometimes, you have to be _selfish_.” Bucky says and the smile that slowly curves around the corners of Bucky’s lips is wistful.

“Think for yourself for once rather than others, huh?” Steve says, feeling his knees go weak, but he doesn’t sit. Bucky’s gaze drops then and Steve watches as he swallows past something. “When did you figure it out?” Bucky doesn’t answer and Steve can see the tension weaving into his muscle, locking around his jaw. “No more hiding, Buck…”

“Nevada.” Bucky finally says, blinking a few times and looking at Tony’s unconscious face. “It was in Nevada.”

The soft huff of laughter _rips_ itself out of Steve’s throat without his control, and he takes a step back and move towards the window, giving his back to his best friend, one of the few men alive that he truly trusts. And just like that, everything just falls to the ground, the hiding, the lies, just as everything that had always been suppressed comes rising to the surface. Steve thinks back to the smiles, the time he had spent with Tony in his workshop, all the dinners, all the parties, all the jokes and breakfasts, all those little moments. Steve thinks of all the times Tony had _looked_ at him -- had truly _looked_ at him -- and had looked far beyond the shield and the uniform, had seen the _man_ underneath it all.

And the laugh turns _bitter_ , and _hurt_ , and _god_ , the self-hate that comes unbidden is unstoppable, just as much as the regret and something else that Steve doesn’t recognize comes _slamming_ against his chest, wrapping around his heart and continues to _ram_ against his ribcage, like it is begging for attention. It displaces him, as if the ground underneath him had been yanked right from under his feet.

The windowsill creaks under his grip.

“If I had allowed him to hurt you, on that day, if I had allowed him to kill you…” Steve finds he cannot form the words.

“It wouldn’t have been your fault. It would have happened at some point, one day, if not with Tony, then with someone else. Our past will _always_ catch up.” Bucky says and that makes Steve turn to face his friend, the breath frozen in his lungs. “Stevie, I will always _love you_ ; you’re my best friend. No matter what happens, that will never change. I’m here, I’m safe. You don’t have to worry about me anymore, I am all right… “

Steve feels the heat in his eyes, pooling like the choking sensation in his chest.

“He asked me one night, that if I had known that he loved _me_ , would I have stayed.” Steve says, blinking away the regret and grief and something else, something _ugly_ from behind his eyelids. “I said I would have tried harder to make it work.” Steve _chokes_ out.

“So would I.” Bucky says, barely a whisper, and he looks _sad_. He looks so fucking sad and Steve doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Maybe _you_ should.” The words are sharp, cutting and slices through the thick air that had somehow settled between them.

“I’m not the one he wants.” Bucky says and _shrugs,_ palms open and lips pressing to a thin and lopsided line, a gesture of complete surrender, because Steve can see the _helplessness_ there and it feels like a knife in his gut, like he’s taking something he had no rights to. “It’s you, Steve. It’s _always_ been _you_.”

The inhale Steve takes then is _loud_ , shaky, like his throat is closing up and his lungs is collapsing and seizing all at the same time. He feels the heat trickle down his eyes and watches as Bucky gives him a small shaky smile and turns to leave the room, leaving behind the one thing that may have been the key to his happiness.

And Steve, on principle alone and because he feels torn, wants to shout out to Bucky that doesn’t have to do this, that it’s not up to him to decide, that I’m okay, you don’t have to do this, you deserve a shot at it because I’ve had my chances, I’ve had hundreds of them handed to me and I did nothing with them, because I was scared, because I didn’t know _how_ , because it’s too goddamn late for me but not for _you_!

But the door clicks shut and words never form. Steve’s lips remains, as always, sealed shut in the moments that matter, completely incapable of finding the courage to be brave for _himself_ for a change. Because this time, what’s on the line is not the future of mankind, or people’s lives or the safety world.

What lies on the balance _now_ is Steve’s own happiness.

And that is something he doesn’t seem to know _how_ to _fight for_.

\--

On the third day, when the early summer showers had blanketed the city and Steve had long finished the cup of tea Bruce had brought up with him when he had checked in on Tony’s condition, just as the sun had started to rise over the horizon, Steve feels the mattress on the bed _shift_ . His reaction to the slight shift is immediate, sitting up straighter on his chair, blinking away the drowsiness, his arm that had been outstretched on the mattress reaching out to grasp Tony’s still _very_ warm hand.

The groan is soft, long, and _pained_ as Tony turns his head to one side and tries to change positions in his sleep. The movement is very minute, but it is enough to make Tony _hiss_ , eyebrows knitting and teeth gritting, tension suddenly lining the entire length of his body.

Steve gets off his chair in one fluid motion, getting on his knees by the bed, reaching out and softening his hold on Tony’s hand. Steve waits with baited breath, Tony’s name rolling off his lips questioningly. It takes a while, but Tony’s eyelids flutter open and they are bloodshot, the whites barely visible in the sea of spider veins centering around Tony’s pupil in a murky crimson ring. Steve feels his stomach plummet at the sight.

But the _smile_ that cracks over Tony’s lips is slow, and _no, oh god no_ , Steve remembers that look like it is only yesterday.

That look is more than enough to tell Steve exactly what timeline _this_ Tony is from.

“So,” Tony says, voice as dry as sandpaper, that Tony flinches just the tiniest bit as he voices out the first syllable, as he carefully clears his throat. “What are you making _me_ for breakfast?”

“I am not sure,” Steve say, measuring his words very carefully, rolling with the question, the smile stuttering on his lips before it fully forms. “What would you like?”

“Oh _gee_ , I don't know, _everything?_ ” Tony says, and _winces_ as he tries to shift again. His body must feel like lead because Tony can’t seem to _move_ . The wince gradually recedes, and Tony blinks the stiffness away, gaze falling on Steve once more. “Jesus, Steve, you went all the way last night, didn’t you? I _can’t_ move.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve says, which is _lie_ , because Steve is not a naïve relic, he is not a prude, he is not a fool -- his face _falls_ with the truth that is also a lie, the words trembling past his lips.

Tony doesn’t respond for the longest time, just _looking_ at Steve as something glazes over the surface of his eyes, something that makes Steve opens his mouth to say _something_ , words that he should have said that Christmas morning a year ago. _Anything_.

Nothing comes out.

(As always.)

Tony lets out a soft breath, blinking very slowly as his hand trembles in Steve’s hold, hesitantly and weakly wrapping around Steve’s fingers. The humor leaves Tony’s face completely then, and after three days, the lines are visible on his face once more. Steve finds himself hating the sight of it, hating himself for being the _cause_ of it. “Is _that_ how you wanna do this?” And then there is a pause and Steve watches as Tony’s lips frown, like he’s bracing himself to be pushed away, just like that time when he had asked Steve, _did you know._ “Are we going to do _this_?”

The question makes Steve release a shaky breath that is almost like a sob as his grip on Tony’s hand tightens and he brings it up against his face, pressing the warm palm against his cheek and keeping it there. The truth is a hard pill to swallow and it makes sense now, the final and last puzzle piece falling into place. Steve thinks back to the nights he had been in the mansion, he thinks back to Rhodey’s words during his vicious arguments with Tony, thinks back to _every single_ moment that Tony had _denied_ his existence because _you’renotreallyou’renotrealyou’renotreal!_

It is in this moment, that Steve realizes _why_ Tony had said his silent goodbye that morning, why when he had sang Christmas carols with all of them, it had felt like he had been doing it for the last time. Steve finally understands the panic, the sudden _surge_ of anger and accusation Tony had thrown at his face, the accusation that Steve had been lying to him about being in one place in the entire mansion.

He understands _now_.

(Oh god, what have I _done_ to you?)

Because the tipping point in deciding to take action against a growing threat is when you realize that what matters the most to you - what defines you and allows you to function at the most _basic_ of levels, to move with the motions of the world, no matter how difficult - is finally threatened, its integrity dangling by a thread, and you are totally and hopelessly compromised.

The tears fall, free and hot and thick, unbidden with no boundaries and nothing holding them back, this time.

“I want to take you dancing.” Steve _breathlessly_ , the words trembling with so much _honesty_ and barely above a whisper. “I want to watch a baseball game with you and eat hot dogs off a cart. I want to walk with you down central park and feed the ducks and share a cold beer on a rainy day. I want to take you the beach and build sandcastles and mermaids with large breasts -- and I -- I -- “ Steve watches Tony’s eyes close, the smile slowly falling from his lips. “-- I want to _always_ fight by _your_ side. I want to start over with _you_.”

Steve’s words _shake_ the silence hanging in the room, words echoing and bouncing off the walls. His breaths come out quick, as he ducks his head against the folds of the sheets and duvet, eyes scrunching shut and hands _clinging_ on to Tony’s, because Steve is afraid, if he lets go now, this opportunity will disappear with it.

(I’m never letting you go.)

“Are you asking me out on a date, Steven Grant Rogers?” Tony asks, slow and so _weak_.

“Yes.” Steve says, and feels himself smile against the fabric of the duvet. The feeling makes something in him _swell_ at an incredible rate, as if whatever that had been suppressing that large balloon had finally broken free. It is unstoppable, it is _liberating_ and Steve feels that sucking in a breath almost tastes like the sweet air of a bright summer’s day, that for once it isn’t bitter, and cold and sharp and so _goddamn difficult_ . He looks up and finds Tony’s eyes are barely open, mere slivers to show the gleam of bright embers swirling in the sea of brown. “ _Yes_ , I am.”

“You can’t be real. You would never...” Tony tapers off, eyes finally closing and eyebrows knitting, worry settling on his face. His voice is quieter and full of doubt and it makes Steve want to _scream_ , it makes him want to _break_ something and _everything_ , it makes him want to forget about being calm, to forget about being the perfect soldier, the disciplined soldier. It just makes him want to not be Captain America, man with a plan, that goddamn, _fucking plan_.

It makes something _ugly_ in him rear its vicious head because:

“ _I’m real_.” Steve says with conviction, the words stemming from every fiber of his being. “I’m real, Tony, _I swear_ _on my life_.”

Tony’s smile is _small_ and _sad_ and Steve shakes his head, denies it, refuses to accept Tony’s disbelief.  He wants to let the words out repeatedly until his throat goes raw, as he watches Tony try to digest this information, _pleasebelievemepleasebelievemepleaseplease!_

“Hypothetical question, Cap…” Tony says, a shuddering wracking through his frame as he sucks in a careful break and doesn’t open his eyes because he _can’t_ , eyelids flickering as his voice grows softer. “If it was your last day on earth, what would you do?”

Steve exhales with a gasp, because it feels like he is six all over again and he is trying to catch his breath in the playground from attempting to run, attempting to be _strong_ and _brave_ , and just _trying_ to _not_ be _so weak_ all the time. It’s like his lungs are collapsing under his ribcage and each inhale is like swallowing sand.

“I would make peace with those I’ve wronged.” Steve answers, reaching up and drying his eyes with a quick swipe of a heel of his hand over his eyelids. “I would spend time with those that I care for. I’d tell the people I care about just how much they mean to me. And most of all,” And here, Steve _pauses_ , trying to gather his courage not for the world, not for those around him, but for _himself_ . “I would want to be braver on that day and tell that person how much I _truly_ love them. And if they would let, I’d _thank_ them for giving and allowing _me_ the _privilege_ of loving them.”

The frown on Tony’s face eases slowly and for a long moment, Steve thinks that Tony had lost consciousness again, the fatigue and the force of the spell finally overwhelming him and dragging him under its hold once more.

For a moment, Steve thinks that yet _again_ , _his_ words, _his_ hopes _, his_ wishes are empty and lost to the air, doomed to never come true, just like his words back then, when he had asked the woman who had made him want to try harder and be _braver_ and bigger than he really is, to go out with him, moments before his imminent death.

(Because a part of you then had known that your survival is not guaranteed. The bravery to speak for yourself that _one time_ , all those decades ago, had stemmed from the _fear_ that you will no longer live, that you won’t have the chance to see it come true. And maybe, just _maybe_ , a very small part of you swore in that moment when the plane crashed, that if you survive this, you’re going to put on your best suit, you’re going to practice your dance moves, maybe buy some cologne and get a haircut and a shave, and be on _time_ . In that moment, you tell yourself that _if you survive_ , you _will not be late, again_.

And now, you’re telling yourself as you look at the face of the man that no longer have any strength in him left, that if this spell lifts, _if some part of you, after all this, remembers_ ** _me_** _, what I’ve said, if a part of you can remember how I want to start over with you, if even the smallest part of you can still_ ** _believe_** _that I_ ** _can_** _and_ ** _will_** _love you, because_ ** _I want to_** _, then please know that I’ll be here, whenever you need me, for whatever reason, for as long as I live. And even if you do not remember me, even if you can’t find the courage to try to remember me, I promise you that I will_ ** _still_** _stand by you, I will_ ** _still_** _fight by you, I_ ** _will_** _make it work and I will always,_ ** _always_** _be there for you._

_I will wait for you for as long as it takes, because I think I know now, that maybe you’re the right partner after all.)_

“It would be my honor to go on a date with you, Steven Grant Rogers.” Tony finally says, with whatever strength he had left.

“No, Tony.” Steve says, and feels the smile splitting his face, wide and bright, and completely unguarded. It is the most foreign feeling in the world. “The honor would be mine.”

\--

Rhodey almost jumps ten feet in the air, mid-call and mid-argument with his superiors, something he’s been constantly dealing with since Tony’s “accident”, when Strange materializes in the middle of the study, dressed in not his usual wizarding suit. Rhodey isn’t sure if Strange dressed down to pressed black slacks, a button down shirt and a pair loafers is more intimidating than the red cape or not, but he finds the tension easing just the tiniest bit at the sight of the dressing over what Rhodey is assuming is a wound on his temple, along with the swollen and purpling bruise decorating his jaw and parts of cheek and the corner of his split lip. It is a reminder that despite their lines of work, Stephen Strange is still but a man and bleeds and hurts just like the rest of them.

He ends the call, tucking his phone away and gives Strange an exasperated look.

“You gotta stop doing that, man. Seriously.” Rhodey says, sighing as he gives Strange one final study. “You all right?”

“All in a day’s work.” Strange says, a touch clipped with a bit of sarcasm that Rhodey recognizes. It is the same way Tony uses to deflect conversations that he had no interests in elaborating because it would hit a very sore and open nerve. “Where is he?”

Rhodey tips his head towards the door and leads Strange down the mansion’s corridor and up a flight of steps where Tony is being watched over by Friday’s materialized form. Friday is sitting on the chair Steve had previously occupied. It is only himself and Steve in the mansion, and Rhodey knows that Steve had left for a moment to change and grab a bite just a few minutes before Rhodey got his phone call. Rhodey’s gaze automatically pans over to where Tony is lying asleep, his footsteps quickening when he spots the blood trickling down his nose and ears.

The alarm that _grabs_ him then is immediate and Rhodey had been nanoseconds away from _blasting_ at Friday for not informing him of this change, for not telling him that Tony is bleeding out of his nose and ears. Except when he lifts Tony’s head, he notices the black glaze of Extremis under barely open eyelids and the _curse_ that rolls of Rhodey’s tongue is _vicious_ , just like the race of his heart.

Rhodey feels no pity or regret when he brings his thumb down against a delicate pressure point on Tony’s shoulder, where he _knows_ it will hurt like a goddamn bitch, and feels no remorse when Tony _gasps_ out in pain, face crumpling from its dazed state, the gasp tapering off to whimper that leaves Tony breathless under the sheets, blinking away the crimson tears from his now bloodshot eyes.

“You don’t _quit_ , do you?” Rhodey says, with fondness and exasperation coating his irritation.

Tony has but a moment to register the words and the new person looming on the other side of the bed, before he blinks and struggles to focus, just long enough to say, “Who the hell are _you_?”

“Doctor Strange.” Strange says before he takes a step closer and places a hand over Tony’s forehead, pulling an eyelid up to study the dilated pupils. He checks the other eye and starts to card his fingers through the crown of Tony’s scalp, slow and movements measured, like he’s looking for something. Rhodey gets it; he had looked into Stephen Strange, and a doctor of his caliber would recognize immediately if something had been off. “Hit your head real hard recently, Stark?”

Tony isn’t able to answer, too disoriented to even form coherent words, disjointed syllables rolling off his tongue as his eyes roll back.

“He’s always hitting his head. He’s freaking Iron Man.” Rhodey says and in that very moment, as Strange examines and reaches down somewhere under base of Tony’s skull, Rhodey debates wanting to say _something_. He debates asking Strange what his knowledge is of hallucinations, if a perfectly functioning brain, healed constantly and maintained by Extremis can still be subjected to hallucinations. Tony had never figured out why he is hallucinating, Bruce himself did not have enough to work with prior to the “memory wipe”. It had all happened so fast.

Telling Strange would mean _trusting_ him with sensitive information and at the moment, Strange isn’t bound by patient-doctor confidentiality. Not when he is… wizarding around, Rhodey thinks.

So the question doesn’t form.

And Strange steps back, clearly not finding anything and gives Tony one more look over. “Well then, let’s get you back to your present timeline, shall we?”

Tony’s hands reach out to grab Strange by the sleeve, like it had taken all his energy to just do that one gesture. The grip only lasts so long before it flops back slack on the bed and Tony’s eyebrows _pinch_ in frustration. Rhodey kneels beside him, and presses a hand to Tony’s shoulder in a calming gesture.

“Tones, it’s okay. You’ll feel better, this will all be over and –“

“Wait." Tony _rasps_ out, head lolling to one side. “ _Please,_ wait… just wait…”

“Tones –“

Rhodey watches as the reds of Tony’s eyes disappear and drowns in black once more. It crawls in and out of existence, as if Tony is reaching out into his cyberspace and trying to catch a grip of _something_ . Rhodey watches as Strange _watches,_ with both eyes wide open and jaw tight as the blood start to trickle down Tony’s nose and ears. It goes on for a while, long minutes and when Strange shakes his head and reaches out to stop whatever _nonsense_ he is seeing, Rhodey holds a hand out to him, stopping him. Strange doesn’t push it, but Rhodey doesn’t miss the twitch of his fingers.

“This is not the spell.” Strange says.

“It’s not.”

“That is never a good sign _at all_ , Rhodes.” Strange says warningly.

“I know. I know – just – “ Rhodey looks down and watches as Tony’s barely open eyelids starts _twitching_ , like he is about to go into a seizure. “He knows his limits. He knows what he’s doing, just give him a minute.”

And when that minute and another and another ticks by and the bleeding continues until the pillowcases are stained _crimson_ , Strange looks _alarmed_ in his calm and composed bravado. “Rhodes.” He says, warningly. Rhodey is looking down as Tony’s breathing starts to get rapid. “Rhodes!”

Friday stands up from her perch and disappears from the room, making the both of them turn at her vanishing in a glowing spray of rose-gold and purple just as Tony lets out a sharp exhale and _slumps_ against the pillows, unmoving.

“I’m all yours. Get me out of here.” Tony manages to stammer out.

And Strange wastes no time, as he pulls out a green medallion from his pocket and putting it around his neck. Rhodes watches as Strange positions himself by the foot of the bed, claps his hands together and holds his hand out forward like he’s lifting something. Rhodes watches as two glowing green crests forms on each palm of his hands, growing larger and expanding on both sides of Tony’s bed like a holographic green box. Rhodes is forced to take a few steps back, just as the door opens and Steve steps in, words dying at the tip of his tongue. Within the flowing box, the storm that had surrounded Tony nights ago appear and start to fizzle, the sparks of golden lightning being absorbed and sucked away into the middle of Strange’s giant green crests. Rhodey watches as Tony’s haircut slowly starts to change to the one had had the day he had been hit by the spell. He watches as the blood on the sheets disappear and what little crimson he can still in Tony’s eyes slowly start to fade. He watches, as Tony’s smile slowly fades from his face and his eyes finally close just as the last bit of the spell is completely sucked dry and the green glow winks out of existence, just as Strange drops his palms against the sides of his legs.

Tony remains unmoving on the bed and asleep, as if whatever that had happened the past several weeks had not happened _at all_.

Strange turns away from the bed to face the room, holds both his palm open just as two small green crests appear around his wrists, spinning. And just like that, as he turns his palms in a counterclockwise motion, Tony’s room shifts and the damages from the storm of the spell disappears.

When it is all over, Rhodey remains standing there, looking stricken and unable to process _what_ had just happened before his eyes.

(I do not like magic.)

Steve remains _silent_ , eyes lingering over Tony’s form.

“That’s the last of it.” Strange says, and sighs _deeply,_ reaching up with a hand to card fingers through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck. “The victims had no memory of what had happened to them. It is safe to say Stark won’t either.” Strange’s gaze shifts briefly to Steve before it shifts back to Rhodes.

And Rhodes can see something in Strange’s gaze that reminds him so much of his best friend. He sees the words that don’t quite form even when the apprehension and the worry – because you can’t look away, because you always want to try to fix things, to help – glows brightly in Strange’s eyes.

“Thank you.” Rhodes says instead, because at the end of the day, as much as he wants to get _help,_ Strange is still, well, _a stranger_. “Any chance on knowing what the hell happened in Asia?”

“Differences in opinion. In belief.” Strange says, casual, _tired_ . “It’s not a monster or a foreign being that you need to concern yourself about. Sometimes, _we_ create our own. Don’t we?” Strange gaze cuts towards Steve again Steve straightens at that. “It’s under control. You have bigger things to worry about like the upcoming director announcement of the new and _re-_ reformed SHIELD. That last disaster after the first announcement was…” Strange makes a face, eyebrows cocking up to his forehead, like the subject is touchy.

And it is, because Rhodes had his ass on the grilling pit this entire time.

Because it is Tony who is going to be the new face of SHIELD. And when Tony is absent for a _very_ long period of time, when the countries under the Accords’ umbrella is raining constant pressure demanding his presence, when trying to keep the press _hushed_ and still trying to tackle rebels causing trouble _worldwide_ , there is only so much he can do when it comes to politically holding the fort. Rhodey wonders if it is due to the Ghostrider that Strange is _aware_ of these things. After all, Ghostrider is a phenomenon not a lot can quite explain, even with science.

“ _Thank you_ , again. For your help.” Rhodey says, and it is a pointed dismissal that Strange takes with stride as he waves a portal open, the light of the portal gateway illuminating the entire room in a bright golden-orange glow.

Strange turns around to step into it but pauses to look over his shoulder. “When he wakes up and the bleeding starts _again_ –“

“I got your number, Strange. I know how to find you.” Rhodey says and gives him a nod. “If you ever need help...”

Strange scoffs, almost mockingly. “Not with your primitive way of fighting.”

And just like that, Strange disappears and the portal shuts.

“Primitive my goddamn, _ass_.” Rhodey grumbles and gives Steve an incredulous half huff of annoyance and half huff of incredulity, just as Steve wraps a hand on his shoulder and gives him a comforting and reassuring squeeze. “It’s finally over.”

“Yeah.” Steve says, and the way he says it makes Rhodey look up and watch him look at Tony, longingly, disappointed, and dare he say, _pained_ . “It’s all over…”   


TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter than the last and I wasn't going to post this so soon but. BUT. I feel some sort of immense relief. After the previous chapter, I had a lot of apprehension and doubt all of a sudden. But then after a few reshuffling of scenes and rewrites, THIS HAPPENED. And I am just... I am just gonna ugly-cry in the corner because writing Steve is so goddamn difficult and ohmahgahd -- ugh. Okay, rant over.
> 
> Depending the length of the next chapter, and how many of the scenes I have lined up I end up scrapping or keeping, it MAY be the last chapter. 
> 
> And then I'm DONE DONE DONE. Time to dig a new project. ~~Maybe just write WinterIron separately.~~ Also, I hope the tags/warning has somehow eased some of you readers. It's never my intention to mislead. If I have, I apologise, it was never my intention. 
> 
> If you've managed to read through that emotional clusterfuck, and that ramble up there, thank you so much for reading and giving this story a chance.


	7. ♡( ◡‿◡ )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. I may have missed some typos/mistakes/blabla. This is an evergreen story and I am continuously re-reading and editing typos as I go.

♡( ◡‿◡ )

Steve does not see Tony for a long time after that night.

When Tony had woken up after the spell had been lifted, he had gone straight to work, moving to fill in the gaps of his absence and taking the reigns once more as he ascended to the position of Director of SHIELD. Steve had only managed to get glimpses of him in the news. And in those small moments, Steve would remember everything that had transpired in the short while he had - after _years -_ spent in Tony’s company. He finds his breath catching in his throat every time Tony had looked into the camera, because it feels like Tony is looking at him.

(In those brief moments, you ask him, do you remember me? Do you think of me?)

But time is never kind to Steve Rogers. Not back then and certainly not now.

And as always, Steve finds himself in the same box, with nothing but his memories of the past. Except instead of time separating him from the one thing he wants most, this time, it’s the politics and rank. Tony seems so close, sometimes being present at their headquarters for strategic meetings and proposals, and yet so far. Tony had seemed and continues to look so unreachable.

A lot of changes happen when Tony becomes director of SHIELD and perhaps one of the major ones is his own team being officially absorbed into Steve’s. The shift adds more artillery to Steve’s team and instead of being a three-man team, he along with Bucky and Sam now have War Machine, Captain Marvel and Vision. Their dynamics shift dramatically but Steve thinks that his team becomes that much stronger. It is this new shift that takes up a _lot_ of Steve’s time.

Steve tries to reach Tony to the best of his ability, had written numerous text messages, e-mails, but always never quite being able to hit the send button.  He constantly thinks of him, sees the weak smile behind his eyelids when he goes to sleep, and again before he wakes up. The yearning swells like a hot air balloon. So much so that Steve spends most of his time looking at the memories in his phone.

(More than once, you look up and find Bucky looking at you. You see him blink away, gaze shifting and not meeting yours. It breaks your heart when he does this, because it feels like a wall goes up between you. You mean to talk to him, to say something, but words fail you and he remains dismissive.)

And before Steve knows it, an assignment in Warsaw takes him and his team away, after a human experimentation had gone awry.

It is during this absence that a major shift takes place and it is the first time the Taskforce and SHIELD truly cooperate. Steve gets the chance to meet one of SHIELD’S team in this mission and finds out from them that it is their director who had ordered that they personally assist and liaise with clean up of human-animal chimera laboratory grown hybrids with Captain America’s team. Steve remembers looking upon the faces of the young members and remembers feeling his breath still in his chest when he watches the Ghostrider blaze in his full glory.

The mission — not counting the loss of lives of the “lab creatures” who had already been doomed in the first place — had been a success.

They fly back home on the same jet, exhaustion taking over as Vision volunteers to fly the jet and the rest of them find a corner to get comfortable in. Bucky wastes no time and retreats to the upper deck, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders and making himself scarce for the rest of the flight, and later on Sam and Carol follow suit, leaving Rhodey to finish up their team’s report just as the rest of the Inhumans find a corner of their own and call it an evening.

Steve, once more is left to mull as he watches the clouds fly by through the window. So lost he is in his storm of thoughts — what is he doing now? Is he stuck in another meeting? Does he remember anything? Did he look through the surveillance footage of all the times he had missed in between? Is he piecing the puzzle together? — that the clatter of the Starkpad makes Steve jerk from his thoughts, just as the jet hits a patch of turbulence. Steve manages to pick it off the floor, catching sight of an online store for  men’s formal evening wear, suits and tuxedos. Steve barely manages the amusement as he watches Rhodey gets a little embarrassed, clearing his throat and thanking him in a murmur as he takes the Starkpad back from where Steve had picked it up from and tucks it away.

“Another gala?” Steve asks, smile lingering around the corner of his lips.

“Wedding.” Rhodey corrects, zipping up his mission utility bag and dropping heavily back on his seat.

Steve sympathises. He really does.

“They can be fun, sometimes.” Steve says, as an offer of encouragement.

“Other’s maybe, not your own.” Rhodey says and _that_ pretty much takes the wind out of Steve.

“W-What — “

“Yeah I uh — yeah.” Rhodey is _blushing_ to the very tips of his ears. “Just last month, actually. She is uh… well, I felt it’ll be good if we were you know, married, to start a family.”

The dots connect and Steve finds himself standing up with a huff of a laugh and wrapping his arms around Rhodey, giving him a big hug. Rhodey goes very still for a moment, but then reciprocates. When Steve pulls back, the smile is splitting his face.

“Congratulations, Rhodes. Really.”

“That’s your heads up, Cap. Carol plans to go on leave without pay post delivery — you might wanna start looking at the Academy or SHIELD.” Rhodey says and returns to seat.

Steve does the same. “Does Tony know?” The question is out before Steve can even stop it, realising how stupid it must sound because of course Tony would know.

“He will tonight.” Rhodey says, bringing up a hand to his face. “I haven’t had the chance — there’s been so much, this entire SHIELD shit and the Accords and the Taskforce. Carol is already on my back about that, by the way, you can wipe that look off your face, Cap.”

“I’m sure he’ll be very excited for you.” Steve says, still smiling toothily.

“That’s kinda’ what I’m afraid of.” Rhodey says and when they make eye contact, they share a short laugh full of affection.

It is yet another reminder for Steve at how messed up the entire situation. “Does he remember anything?” He asks, when the silence finally fall and they are both, without realising, ruminating about the man in question.

“No.” Rhodey shakes his head. “He said as much and… I believe him. There are things he doesn’t remember, things that he shouldn’t have forgotten — and I’m not just talking about the spell. Whatever he wiped, he wiped it _good_.” Steve can’t help but notice the pained edges look that tugs around the melancholic smile Rhodey now wears on his face. “It is what it is. But, he’s better now, he seems better, sharper, more focused, less distracted like -- you saw. You know what I’m talking about.” Rhodey says, and Steve cannot stop himself from looking away. “I miss him, you know? I really do.”

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s not your fault.” Rhodey _sighs_ , and cranes his neck back, thumping his head against the wall. “He’s better now and honestly, that’s all I can ask for. I’m just _glad_ he is. He’s still… him. Just a little disconnected, sometimes.”

Steve closes his eyes at that and swallows past the baseball sized lump in his throat.

(I miss him too.)

\--

Steve gets the invitation to the wedding two weeks later in an e-mail, for a wedding party to be held three weeks later, on a Saturday, a small and very private reception at the The Central Park Boathouse.

It had been a very exciting thing amongst the team; Steve assumes that upon receipt of the invitation, Tony had been made aware. His assumptions is proven right when Tony sends out an invitation for a bachelor’s party. The schedule is rather inconspicuous because it had been smack in the middle of the week, on a Wednesday. They are to meet at the Hudson Bar and Books at seven to “warm up” and later, they are to move to LAVO for “the real party”. Steve finds himself smiling toothily at the detailed text, where he can practically hear Tony through it. It gets him excited too, his genuine happiness for Rhodey and Carol’s new life ahead adding more steam to the fast gallop of his heart under his ribcage; this is the first time Tony is reaching out to him and he had assumed that _if_ there is to be a bachelor’s party, it is likely to be a private affair. He had not expected to get an invitation whatsoever; the fact there is one staring up at him, punctuated with Tony saying he will ensure their schedules are cleared for that day, you have _no excuse, boys. Wear something nice. Make sure you have a speech, too. Rhodey-tutu hates cheesy speeches; we are going to party like we’re fratboys._ The invitation gets Steve excited to not only celebrate a very precious moment in one of the men he considers not only a teammate but a friend, but the selfish part of him is so, _so_ very excited and eager to see Tony after _months_.

He looks up from where he is sitting in the mess hall, in the middle of lunch after their training sessions with SHIELD’s Inhumans unit, to meet Bucky’s gaze. The smile on his face must have been so wide because Steve _feels_ how his entire face falters when he meets that gaze. It is a very brief stutter, hesitant in its nature but the small smile that tugs up at Bucky’s lips, one that reaches his eyes, softens the usual hard and stoic lines around it makes Steve feel a bit of relief. They look at each other for a long quiet moment, a thousand things going unsaid and Steve wants to say that he understands, that feeling in you where you want something so bad, but can’t have it. Where you crave and _yearn_ for something that you don’t think you deserve because of your mistakes, your faults, maybe because you don’t think you can keep it.

Steve opens his mouth to say something, to address whatever it is that hangs between himself and his childhood best friend.

The moment and opportunity is broken and lost when Clint and Sam comes to them, Clint slapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder and Sam sitting next to Bucky, throwing an arm over his shoulder and showing him a jacket he wants to wear to this party. They immediately start talking about their speeches, mostly Sam and Clint filling their table with their excited chatter. Vision joins them, a ghost of a smile lingering around the corners of his lips. The talk pauses as all

“Hey Vee, what are you gonna wear? Got a nice jacket?” Sam asks, with a cocked eyebrow.

“I was thinking of wearing something comfortable. Maybe…” Vision waves a hand, as black dress pants, a gray dress shirt a woolen pullover. He adds a blue tie for color and then looks at all of them expectantly.

Steve tries hard not to smile at the dumbfounded look on Clint and Sam’s face. He really does.

“Tony is gonna kill you, man.” Sam says.

“Skin you _alive_.” Clint adds.

“Is this not appropriate? I was told by the mall staff that this is what most would consider formal, nice and comfortable.” Vision says, looking genuinely confused.

Steve ducks his head then, to bite his lower lip and hide his amusement when Sam and Clint pulls Vision aside and start showing him pictures of what he should think of wearing because they don’t want Tony to rain hellfire on their ass when they show up like a bunch of riff-raffs to his best friend's bachelor party.

“Hey guys,” Scott says, sporting a nice swollen eye from getting socked in the face during a spar by Quake. “So this party -- are we really giving individual speeches?”

“Yup.” Clint nods.

“For sure.” Sam nods.

“If Mr. Stark asks for it, then it must have contributing factor to Colonel Rhodes’ happiness.” Vision punctuates.

Scott looks at Bucky and Steve, and they both hold up their hands in surrender, like they both do not have a clue how to argue that. The gesture happens at the same time, almost perfectly timed and Steve finds himself meeting Bucky’s gaze, amusement broadening his smile further.

“But what do I _say_?” Scott asks, looking genuinely distressed.

Steve tunes out the rest of the chatter out, re-reading the text-invitation a few more times as he polishes up the rest of his lunch. He manages to string an outline mentally of what to say in these individual speeches Tony wants them to make. He hits the reply button on the screen and types:

 _Thanks for the invite; we will all be there._   
  
The phone is tucked away just as the argument over why chinos are considered formal starts to escalate and Steve finds himself standing up and breaking up Clint and Scott, asking them to wrap it up and get back to the training grounds. And as they all head down the hallway to meet SHIELD’s team, he feels the phone vibrate in his pocket.

When he pulls it out, the response to his text reads:

_Don’t be late._

The smile doesn’t come off Steve’s face for the rest of the week leading up to the party.

 

\--

  
When Steve sees Tony standing outside the door of the Hudson Bar and Books, he finds himself stilling in his spot on the sidewalk. Tony, as he always is, looks impeccable in his dark jeans, Bristole Chukkas, linen blazer and striped skinny tie. Steve spots a flash of visible color under the fold of Tony’s blazer, from where his hand is in his pocket. The look is significantly more dressed down that his usual three piece suit that he does not seem to step out of anymore these days, being an official in the public eye. Seeing him in person, looking more like himself during the days when the team had been together, those pockets of small moments where they had gone out or had partied together, is enough to make Steve’s knees go _weak_. His heart is hammering again, as he follows after the rest of the team, who are already shaking hands and getting fired up for the party.

When Steve takes Tony’s hands in his, they are a little clammy; Steve can feel the ghost of a tremble there, even when Tony gives his hand a firm handshake.

“Good to see you, Tony.” Steve says and it is the most heartfelt thing that leaves his mouth.

“You too, Cap.” Tony says, and Steve finds himself blinking around the flash of _something_ in Tony’s gaze.

(Do you remember me?)

The moment is lost when Tony turns around immediately, releasing his grip on Steve’s hand and starts barking orders and giving them an overview of their schedule and party.

And just like all the parties before, this one kicks off in a flash the moment Rhodey walks through the door and they’re all throwing their arms up in a loud hurrah, fueling his embarrassment. The drinks flow, and they give Rhodey their individual speeches, much to Rhodey’s _further_ embarrassment. When Tony’s turn comes, he simply holds up his hands and shakes his hand.

“I can’t give a speech. I get away with giving a speech. Speeches aren’t my thing -- ask Rhodey-boo --”

“It really isn’t.” Rhodey says, already a touch tipsy with a permanent flush and a smile a mile wide on his face.

“-- see?” Tony says and wraps an arm around Rhodey’s shoulder. “So I don’t have to give a speech. Now. I cannot say that as your Best Man, I won’t say a few _flattering_ words at your reception.”

“No, no, god no, _Tones_ , I am begging you, a simple congratulations, is more than enough.” Rhodey looks _pained_. “You’ve all seen his I am Iron Man speech, right?”

The roar of laughter that comes after that is raucous and Steve cannot help himself, he laughs too. They share another toast when Tony raises a hand in the air before departing to LAVO. At LAVO’s, Steve discovers that Tony had made it private, where more of their common friends and colleagues, some of the veterans that Rhodey had served with had been waiting for them and the music is _blasting_. The party had already warmed up and people are already dancing and bouncing to the bass drops.

Here, in the middle of all this, Steve finds himself sitting at the bar and watching Tony drags Rhodey to the dance floor and _forces_ him to dance to every tune the DJ belches out, everything ranging from the latest music to tunes from the past. At some point in the evening, where everyone is already on their way to being drunk, a sheen of sweat on their temples from all the dancing and raunchy games, the DJ suddenly makes an announcement, saying that the next tune is a special shout out to the groom, because everyone know what a gunslinging cowboy he really is, and country music fills the room. Here, Steve watches as Rhodey’s drunken sway slowly stills and he turns to look at Tony, who stands there, in the middle of the room, grinning like a _fool_ , like the _happiest_ fool, so goddamn happy for his friend. Steve watches as Rhodey reaches up and pinch the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. It must be a private joke of sorts because Rhodey is _laughing_ , and Steve swears that he sees him brush tears off his eyes as he crosses the distance and _embraces_ Tony, lifting him off the ground.

Rhodey doesn’t let go.

Not for a long time.

In that small moment, Steve sees the roots of their friendship that runs deeper than anything he’s ever seen. He sees himself and Bucky, back in the day, long after Steve had put his father and then his mother in the ground, in the bitter winters where he and Bucky had huddled by the fireplace, where they had run around Coney Island, wreaking havoc, where they had snuck out in the middle of school, where they had gatecrashed several parties -- and right there, in the middle of the dance floor, where Rhodey and Tony are getting the country-line-dance fired up like they know what they’re doing, the crowd grows larger, with Clint and Sam jumping in on it so fast, Scott hot on their heels. Steve watches with a laugh as Bruce is dragged by Johnny Storm to the floor, finds himself splitting his sides when Bruce _tries_ so hard. And when Vision attempts to join, Rhodey and Tony pauses in their synced steps to just _watch_ as Vision had his moves down on pat.

“Aren’t you going to join them?” Bucky asks, emptying his beer.

“I’d think you would be in there by now. I remember how you used to own the dancefloor.” Steve says, giving Bucky a pointed look.

“I haven’t done anything like that in a real long time.” Bucky says, shaking his head, as his head turns to look at everyone clap their hands in the air in sync. “That me from then, I’m not him anymore. I dunno if I can even _dance_ anymore.”

“I double-dare you.” Steve says.

“No.” Bucky says, giving him a pointed look. “Stevie --”

“You scared?” Steve _challenges_.

“Oh, that’s how you gonna be, you little punk?” Bucky says and sets his glass down.

“Hey, I’m not the one who is scared, hiding by the bar, _scared_ I can’t get my moves right.” Steve says, cocking both eyebrows.

And just like that, Bucky sets his empty glass down and undos the button of his jacket, crossing the space between the bar stool and dance-floor and finding a spot beside Tony. Steve watches him count and when the synced clap sounds off, Bucky is jumping in the air with the rest of them, seamlessly following the steps, earning a loud laugh from everyone because no one in their right minds would imagine the Winter Soldier being a part of the country-line-dance. Steve watches with the smile slowly dropping to something mellower as Bucky and Tony dance before his eyes, smiles unguarded.

Steve feels something that he doesn’t quite appreciate or like make itself known in his chest, and he turns away, to stop fueling the feeling, asks for another beer that he knows will do nothing for him. He is about to take his first sip before he feels Sam and Clint grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him away from his beer and the bar, pushing him between Rhodey and Tony, having no choice but to to join in on the fun between the Best Man and the Groom.

“Come on Steve,” Rhodey says, clapping his hand. “I’m gonna make you feel guilty about not looking like a fool like the rest of us at my _party.”_

Steve feels small in the sea of people, feels suddenly insecure and unsure of what to do with himself. He catches sight of Tony smiling broadly, watches him laugh as he turns and claps his hands, watches how he seems so carefree, how _himself_ he is, how he is having a good time with _everyone_ , as he always does at parties like this. Steve feels his feet start to move, two steps to the left, then three to the right, tap, tap, tap.

The music and power dies down all of a sudden, garnering a collective sound of disappointment from the crowd before it dissolves to murmurs of concerns and mild alarm. The backup generator fires up immediately and Steve catches sight of Tony’s expression souring and growing dark, sober and focused as he slips on his tinted glasses and pulls out his phone, tapping furiously into it.

Agents, soldiers and Superheroes alike start moving towards the exit, throwing the doors open.

“Power grid is down in the entire city.” Tony says, and _curses_ under his breath as he steps out of the club and into the street where people are gathering in the darkened streets. Steve is following Tony outside, and the rest of his team follows him. “Spiderling~ I asked for one night~ I trusted you for one night~ Why am I not getting my _one night~”_

Peter’s voice is loud and clear from Tony’s ear piece; Steve hears everything.

“Don’t worry Mister Stark! I got it under control! Agent Coulson is already sending a team to contain the --” Tony cringes as he hears a static and what sounds like an explosion. From a distance, Steve hears and feels the minute wave of the explosion under his feet. “-- I’m okay, I’m okay -- there’s been a breakout at Oscorp and there’s a - a - _oh shit!_ ”

“What’s happening, Spiderboy.” Tony says, tone sharpening in its even tone as he taps furiously onto his phone, trying to fire up Stark Tower’s power source to give them eyes and ears.

“Have you ever seen that movie with Jack Sparrow?” Peter says, a little breathless as he sounds like he’s running or quite possible webbing up damages to minimize civilian casualties.

“There’s a freaking Krakken in the New York Bay! It’s heading for the harbor! Don’t worry Mister Stark -- I got it, we got it, you still get your one night and --”

Tony ends the call, pulling the earpiece out just as he gets some visual feed from his own satellites. He blows up the image from his phone, and Steve finds himself staring at a giant octopus like thing causing tidal waves to rides from the river and wash ashore.

“Oh come on.” Sam says, throwing his hands up in the air.

“All hands on deck.” Tony says, sucking in a very, _very_ deep breath before he turns to Rhodey, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, Buddy. I tried.”

“If we clean it up, up real fast, maybe we can just I dunno eat later or something?” Clint offers.

“Just like old times.” Bruce says, flicking a gaze up at Steve.

Steve finds himself turning to look at Tony who is looking at him expectantly. Vision disappears for a moment and returns with their belongings from the car, dropping the bags on the ground where it had Steve’s shield, Clint’s weapons, Scott’s suit , Bucky’s guns and blades and Sam’s Falcon gear.

“I’m pretty sure Spiderman and SHIELD can handle the Krakken, but the sooner it’s cleaned up the sooner we can go back to partying.” Tony says, shrugging. The roar of his Audi’s R8 Spyder cuts through the hesitant pause that is mostly awkward and mostly Steve no knowing how to handle the opportunity being handed to him on a silver platter; his heart is _pounding_ again, like war drums. Tony is popping the trunk of his car open and pulling out a silver metallic briefcase; he hands this to Rhodey. “What do you say, buddy? Feel like doing a test flight?”

“This is --”

“War Machine. Modelled after the Mark V.” Steve watches as Tony winks at Rhodey, who is staring at the briefcase with _awe_. “It’s your party, buddy. What do you wanna do?”

Rhodey’s grin is so wide that it is all the answer they need.

Tony is already peeling off his jacket and tossing it into his car, loosening his tie. Steve _cannot_ look away, because it only means one thing.

“Call it, Cap.” Rhodey says.

The smirk Tony gives him, cocky, confident, _eager_ is enough for Steve to start barking out strategic orders and how to contain the monster with minimum damage. He watches as they strap their suits and weapons on, watches as Rhodey presses his foot down into the briefcase and the metal armor of War Machine encases him. He watches as Tony pulls off his glasses, shuts his car door, holds his arms out and red and gold crawl all around him, encasing him in the armor that Steve thinks is, honest to god, the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes upon.

And when they cut through the evening sky line of New York, when Steve watches,  as Iron Man cuts to the left to take his position where Steve had asked him to be, Steve thinks that for the first time what feels like _years_ , he feels _alive._

(I hope you remember me. Because all I can think of now, is _you_.)

\--

Apparently, the ‘Krakken’ in New York is not the _only_ one present in the American continent. It takes them the rest of the night to obliterate the creature and upon touchdown in their rendezvous point at the harbor, Tony gets the call that there had been multiple sightings of others like it in the Gulf of Mexico, the Colorado River, the Great Lakes, Colombia River and Niagra Falls. Everyone is being mobilized to neutralize the threat. Canada and Mexico are already calling in for additional reinforcements to assist their teams on the ground.

Steve touches down on the harbor, thanking Vision as he straps the shield back on his back, just as Spiderman touches down beside him too, jogging towards Tony who is losing his shit on the phone, pacing back and forth in his armor. Steve brushes away a goop of gray slime that lands with a very audible squishy sound on the ground as he approaches Tony. Tony who is flushed and looking quite livid.

Steve doesn’t care.

Because he is busy watching Tony get angry as he tries to pool resources as fast he can possibly manage to ensure that all casualties are taken care of and the clean up happens as quickly and as seamlessly as possible. Listening to him bark up orders and manage his own team makes something in Steve swell with pride, warmth spreading in his chest. And when Tony looks up to meet his gaze and it feels like something had yanked the breath out of Steve because Tony _looks_ at him, really _looks_ at him.

It last a moment.

And then it’s gone when Tony is snapping at the person on the other end of the line, turning his back to everyone else, just as the Iron Man suit disintegrate to a million nanites and disappears from Tony’s body, until he is just pacing the harbor in his jeans and rumpled button down shirt.

“Hi, Cap!” Peter says, waving in front of Steve’s face, _startling_ him out of his reverie. “You’ve got a very large Krakken goo on your head!”

Steve feels his cheeks heat up at being so obviously distracted and reaches up to wipe the sleeve of his now ripped and very dirty blazer on his head, swiping a large blob off his head. A wave of his arm sends the goop flopping against the asphalt with an audible and disgusting sound.

“How are you, Spiderman?” Steve asks, nose wrinkling a touch in disgust.

“Worried. Mister Stark is gonna kill me. Sorry I couldn’t get things under control -- oh man, Mister Stark is pissed. He is so pissed!”

“Don’t worry. Tony is very understanding --” Steve is cut off when Tony turns around to vent at Peter, who hops away in his direction, waving his hand and trying to explain what had happened.

“One night, Peter! One damn night, what is it with Oscorp and --”

“Mister Stark! Mister Stark, I can explain -- no, wait, really, you see, what happened is --”

Steve gets nudged by Sam and they both stand there are they watch Tony and Peter start arguing back forth, with Peter waving his arms and pointing and counting off casualties with his fingers while Tony talks statistics and damage control.

“They’re like father and son.” Sam says, “Isn’t that something?”

“Yeah. He’s something, isn’t he?” Steve says, eyes focusing on Tony and unable to stop the sigh of relief from leaving him. It is so surreal watching Tony like this because you had thought, once upon a time, that you’d never be a part of something like this with him anymore. You had thought that after all you’ve done, you wouldn’t deserve it, that maybe you’d have to wait for a _long time_ before you can even catch a glimpse let alone be a part of Tony’s team again. You did not foresee this, you did not imagine this and a part of you wonder if everything that had happened so far is a dream.

(Do you remember me, Tony? Is there a part of you that can see me now?)

“Oh man.” Sam says, making Steve blink and look at him in confusion. Sam says nothing but simply claps him in the back.

Thinks happen so fast after that, because just as they recuperate and exchange intel, Steve receives his new orders from the Taskforce. They are to liaise with their team in Canada to neutralize and clean up the multiple sightings of the same creature all over Niagra falls.

When Steve looks up, he finds Tony looking _livid_ and ready to rip someone in half. He watches as he and Rhodey exchange words, reads the apology roll off Tony’s lips and watches as Rhodey simply holds him the shoulders, trying to pacify him. Steve’s team is already boarding the quinjet. Rhodey leaves Tony and boards the plane and Steve gives Peter and Tony a nod, but is stopped when he feels Tony’s hand on his arm.

The grip is firm and warm against the sleeve of his tattered jacket.

“Rhodey’s wedding is in less than seventy-hours, Captain.” Tony says, and Steve sees something there in his gaze, something that is parts worry, parts nervousness but mostly fear in disappointment. “You make sure you wrap up long before that. You make sure _nothing_ happens to him. I am not going to have a Storm and Reeds wedding fiasco. He is not missing his goddamn wedding, for any goddamn reason. Can I trust you to do that, Captain?”

Steve turns to face Tony fully, sliding his arm off Tony’s grip. “He’ll be there. I promise.”

And there, something flickers and it makes Steve want to reach out, want to say more.

But Tony is stepping away and Steve is forced to take a few steps back and turn his back on the man that he does not want to walk away from. Steve feels nervousness wrack him, feels adrenaline rush through his veins as he starts strategizing with the team.

He had a job to wrap up and wrap up really fast.

\--

Steve is in panic.

Steve is really, _really_ , panicking.

The wedding is taking place in two hours and they are one hour away from reaching New York. The ‘Krakken Attack’ as it is now being officially called, had spread out over the North America that after taking down two of them in Niagra Falls, Steve had fought several others in the Gulf of Mexico, Lake Michigan and the Hudson Bay. Had it not been for the panic, Steve would have passed out from exhaustion just like the rest of team in the jet. Steve hesitates in making the call to Tony, wonders how he would even begin to say what he wants to say because there is no way all of them can be dressed and ready for a goddamn wedding. He doesn’t even know if there is a landing pad anywhere near the venue.

He receives a call from Pepper, ten minutes prior to their arrival, where he is told that they are being dropped off in Central Park, that there is a team at The Pierre Hotel on standby to prep them for the wedding, that the wedding is still goddamn happening.

Steve knows that if Pepper is involved, it means that Tony is on the ground too.

And it happens like a military drill.

With less than an hour to spare, Steve’s team is whisked to the The Pierre and escorted to their rooms, where their suits and stylists had been waiting for their arrival. Steve doesn’t see Rhodey after that because he is dragged by Tony himself, already in his three piece tuxedo, ready to get the show on the road.

Steve cannot even say he remembers what happens after he had stepped out of the shower, when he is forced to sit on a chair and practically manhandled by stylists who combs his hair dresses him and then sends him on his way to a waiting vehicle that speeds down the road to get to the venue in time, ushers and usherettes hurrying them to their designated seats by the decorated gazebo overlooking the orange tinted waters, just as the sun begins to set over the horizon.

Up until the point when Carol makes her appearance, a true vision in white, and Steve and the rest of the team - judging by the look on everyone’s faces - still cannot figure out how they had gone from looking like they had stepped out of a warzone to looking suitable for a white wedding in less than hour. The thought lingers for but a minute more up until Carol walks down the isle and they all stand on queue.

And then none of it matters.

Because Steve watches as they exchange their vows and somewhere in the middle, his gaze tears away from the bride and groom to focus on Tony. Tony who is looking like he had not struggled the past seventy-two hours, Tony who is a vision in his three piece tuxedo, watching as couple exchange their rings and the priest announce them as husband the wife. Tony, who smile is so wide that it splits the sky, who whistles and cheers like the rest of the crowd, following after his best friend down the aisle, all the way up to the reception venue.

Steve doesn’t notice time going by, doesn’t taste any of the things being served at cocktail hour, nor does he pay much attention to the first dance or anything that is served at dinner. Steve doesn’t even know what he is putting in his mouth, because he is so busy watching Tony sitting across the room, beside Rhodey and looking nervous, with Pepper beside him and Rhodey’s only living elder relative. He watches how Tony looks nervous, looks unsure, unable to sit still. He watches as Pepper places a hand over his, whispering something in his ear. It seems to have calmed Tony because he stands up and clears his throat, picking his a dessert spoon and his glass, giving it a few taps to get everyone’s attention.

“Okay, okay, hello, everyone, can I have your attention, yes, yes all eyes on me please, it’s my turn to embarrass and make the groom blush more than he already is, because Rhodey-bear, we all know how you love a good speech dedicated to you.” The room erupts in laughter and slowly hushes down. “Just so you know, Rhodey-cakes, I spent a good week trying to come up with this speech. There were lots of rewrites and scrapping, Pepper here can attest to it and --” Pepper gives Tony a pointed look; the same look that Rhodey is giving him, even though Carol is looking quite amused and smiling broadly at him. “-- right, well. So!” Tony claps his hand once and adjusts the mic piece over his ear. “The truth is, I don’t have a speech. But I have a story that I hope, by sharing with everyone here, people who matter to you, your families, will provide some insight in why, Carol, I think you are possibly the luckiest woman on earth.” Tony clears his throat and turns to address the room. “I met Rhodey when I was seventeen at MIT, final year for me after multiple master’s degrees and on my with a couple of PHD’s -- can you tell I wasn’t a favorite? Youngest in all my classes - always - so you can guess that not a lot wanted to be around me. But Rhodey-poo, here, isn’t like all others. He did the one thing not a lot of people do when it comes to Starks, or, specifically, me.”

Tony pauses and reaches up to tug at his collar; Steve can see the flush on his cheeks, can see the nervousness the lines Tony’s shoulders.

“So of course, willingly, he had walked into that trap all on his own. Let me emphasize that you walked into that one all on your own, Rhodey, all on your own with me trying to convince you with my charming personality. And ever since then, you’ve been stuck with me. You see, most of you in this room, not counting family, knows Jim here as your comrade at arms, fellow soldier, Colonel, War Machine - you’re always welcome, buddy - and a _hero_ . But I know him as the man who took a chance on someone who everyone had thought of nothing more as an advantage. He, to me, continues to be one of the bravest men I have had the privilege of knowing. Rhodey’s bravery is different, because it doesn’t stem from desperation, it doesn’t come from foolishness, from ego, from pride. Rhodey’s bravery stems from something a lot better that not a lot us have. Rhodey’s bravery comes from courage and kindness -- from _compassion_ . And I never really fully understood it, until you, buddy, welcomed me to your home, to your family. You were always one of Nana’s favorites, and Nana -- Nana had always said, every time we had gone to your home -- our home, Nana would correct _me_.”

Steve stills at the sharp inhale Bucky takes beside him and turns to find Bucky staring wide eyed at Tony, stiff and fist tight as fists that he carefully releases, flattening gloved palms against the table. It makes Steve blink, as light laughter fill the room when Tony compares ‘Nana’ to Pepper on a bad day. Steve follows Bucky’s line of sight and finds Rhodey already blinking away tears that he is not allowing to fall, an incredulous look on his face, disbelieving.

“Nana would always say, have courage and be kind. They were her dying words. And you, buddy, you were kind to me when no one was. You had the courage to stand by me, when no one else did. And most of all, the compassion, the patience and understanding you have shown me, for the past thirty-some years and still counting, is my privilege. So, my dearest Carol, you cannot have chosen a better man to share your life with, because I promise you, I swear to you, this is something you will not regret. You will know no fear, you will never feel doubt. Because _I know_ Rhodey. He will cherish you, and love you and will _always_ have your back, _no matter what_ . And I wish you both, from the depths of my heart, _all_ the happiness in the world.” Tony’s hand is shaking as he picks up his champagne flute and holds it up to the room. “To James and Carol.”

Steve gets on his feet, like the rest of the room, repeating the words and drinking to the couple. Steve watches as Rhodey wraps his arms around Tony, embracing him tightly, and hiding tear streaked face against his blazer. Carol is dabbing at her eyes and wrapping her arms around Tony as well, who kisses her forehead and says something to them that makes them laugh in through their tears. Tony is waving a hand at the DJ who queues the music for the couples first dance.

And as the lights dim, whatever mellow feeling Steve had in his chest, moved by Tony’s honest speech freezes when Bucky grabs him by the elbow, pulling him aside.

“He knows.” Bucky says, voice low, dragging Steve away from the crowd. “He _remembers_.”

“How did --”

“Because _I know_ .” Bucky says, jaw tight and something _blazing_ in his gaze that gives Steve reason to pause and look at it. The sight of it makes Steve straighten his back, tension lining his arms.

He tears his gaze away from his best friend, scanning the crowd and finding Tony weaving his way past the crowd to step outside. When he turns to look back at Bucky, Bucky is gone, and Steve cannot spot him.

Steve turns to look at the direction of the doors Tony had walked out of, catching a glimpse of his silhouette of him sitting in one of the benches outside, through the sheen of white chiffon. Steve feels his feet move, one step in front of the other, until he is brushing past the fall of paper-thin fabric and pushing the door open, seeing Tony sit there in the dim lights, his shoulder slumped and looking like the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders. As Steve’s footsteps slow and he moves to stand in front of Tony, he sees the difference in the man he had shared a team with and the man that sits by himself on the bench, holding an empty glass of scotch in a hand that is shaking, that it makes the ice inside the glass rattle. This Tony is smaller, alone, heartbroken and looking like despite his accomplishments, he had nothing. This Tony who is also leaner than the bulk and muscle that Steve remembers from years ago. This Tony who had just delivered a speech that still weighs on Steve’s heart because it had been so honest, and so open, and for just a brief moment, the world had seen what truly lies in his heart.

(You had known. You always did. It just feels different hearing it, doesn’t it?)

Steve kneels on one knee before Tony, so that he is the one looking up at him. “Hey,”

“Hey,” Tony answers, eyes lifting from the ice in his glass. “Shitty speech, huh? I forgot half the stuff I wanted to say.”

The shaking gets worse and Steve reaches out to steady Tony’s hand,wrapping his fingers around the fingers and carefully taking the glass away. Steve thinks he should let go, because he doesn’t want to crowd Tony, he doesn’t want to force his presence when it is not needed. But the look Tony gives him, and how he opens his mouth to suck in a slow breath makes Steve pause, and the question he’s been meaning to ask leave his mouth.

“Do you remember me?” Steve asks and hopes, _he dares_ to hope, as he watches Tony’s eyes soften around the corner. That hope crushes when he sees the sad smile that tugs over Tony’s mouth. And suddenly he doesn’t want to let go of his hand, because the fear of letting go _swells_ in his chest.

“Which parts?” Tony asks, head tilting to the side, looking tired, so, so very tired.

“The only ones that matter.” Steve says, holding his breath.

“No,” Tony says and looks apologetic and devastated, the mask finally dropping his face as his fingers wrap around Steve’s fingers. “Not in any way that matters, or any way that I should. The spell did not give me that. But everything else -- then, yes. Yes, I remember everything else.” Tony gives a bit of a shrug. “I couldn’t remember anything, the important things, Rhodey and I -- older me had gotten a headstart in re-coding Extremis for me. He probably thought I’d need it at some point and -- well, I did. Sooner rather than later. Which is good otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to make Rhodey _cry_ on his wedding. Yay, me.”

“You were great.” Steve says softly, and sees past the false cheer, sees past the bravado and the kindness and selflessness that Tony shows by putting the happiness and needs of others ahead of his own. Steve takes Tony’s hand in both of his and brings it up to his lips, pressing a kiss over the still shaking fingers, _because you are the bravest man I know. You are the kindest man I know, the most selfless. I cannot think anyone else who had given up so much for the sake of others and it doesn’t matter if you cannot remember me, if you cannot recall anything that I’ve said, because your_ **_time_ ** _spent with me is_ **_my privilege._ ** “Believe me.”

“I remember you.” Tony says quietly, and the smile that tugs up his lips is so small and so _shy_ that Steve feels his breath hitch in his throat. “You were one of the few _good_ things I had left. And I don’t have much.”

The hesitance only lasts for a moment, before Steve feels something settle in his veins, something warm that comes with the way Tony looks at him, with nothing in between, no veil covering memories, no hate, no anger -- the world fades to nothing and all Steve can see is the warmth in Tony’s eyes, quiet and so private, bright in its burn. It makes Steve rise to his feet, pulling Tony up with him. Steve is careful to go with the motions of pulling Tony closer, lacing their fingers together and placing Tony’s hand on his shoulder, just as Steve slides an arm around Tony’s hip. The sway is slow, and not rushed, and right there, under the flow of the light pouring through the glass and lanterns in the garden and harbor, Steve feels himself get lost in Tony’s gaze. Time for a moment, did not seem to be significant, because for once, in a long time, Steve feels like had woken up from a daze.

For once in his _life_ , he feels grounded, right there, as their dress shoes brush against the cobblestone path, and the smell of Tony’s cologne fill his senses and the warmth radiating from under his suit permeates through Steve’s skin, warming the ice that, for a long time, had made itself a home in Steve’s bones. And Tony just looks at him, through the shadow of his lashes, their foreheads pressed together, like he, Steve Rogers, is the only existence in the world.

The only one that matters.

“If it’s all the same to you, Steven Grant Rogers, I would very much _still_ want to go on a date with you.”

And when he smiles -- when that _smile_ that lights up Tony’s face -- Steve feels a shudder of _relief_ course through him. He cannot stop himself when he wraps his arms around Tony, he cannot stop himself from pressing a kiss to Tony’s cheek and burying his face against his neck, anchoring himself to his presence, his warmth, his very _existence_ in the there and _now_ , because _I don’t care if you remember what I said, I don’t care if you remember anything from the spell -- I got you now. And that’s all that matters. I’m never letting you go._

“I’ve missed you.” Steve says, his voice _trembling_.

“I believe you.” Tony says, and Steve thinks it is a blessing and some of the most honest and sweetest words he’s ever been told.

  
FIN

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD THIS SHIT IS OVER?!
> 
> WOW I CANNOT BELIEVE IT.
> 
> I had intended to write out the dates, I really did. Or at least even a part of it. I had also intended for a racier/porny scene but as I typed it, it had come across rather crass and I felt had cheapened the emotional aspect of it. Or maybe I just wasn't writing it right. After a few trial and errors, I am left with this -- this. I am glad it is over. I am glad they are together, yes please, go FUCK FOR FUCK'S SAKE. FUCK LOTS.
> 
> I am just glad this is over. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! All your support, your kind words, your fangirling and whatnot -- please know that you encourage me! Thank you for giving this little story arc a chance and I hope to see you guys around next time in any future works that may follow :)))
> 
>  
> 
> **  
>  EDITED JAN15 2017: NOTE THAT WINTERIRON DEVIATION/AU FROM THIS CHAPTER IS CURRENTLY IN PROGRESS. A NEW CHAPTER WILL BE POSTED TO LINK THOSE WHO KEEP ASKING FOR WI -- YEAH I CAVED. IT'S HAPPENING FML D:<  
>  **


	8. When the Sun Rises - WI

**[When the Sun Rises](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9332648) **

The alternate and WinterIron diverging story in the Rebirth Universe. This story deviates from Bucky's last line in chapter 7.


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